The Robert Vain Case
by What 1987
Summary: A very vain Holmes tries to solve the Robert Vain Case, Irene Adler is there for all women and Watson is just like Adam in creation itself. Starts cool,then there's romantic rubbish, then vulgar nice slash, then mystery, then detective rubbish, ends cool.
1. Chapter 1

**Oh sorry, if this appears updated recently, well I only put it in chapters instead of just one chapter. Alright, whoever read it before, it's just the same.**

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- I have it! I have it!

Holmes was coming running to Stamford and some stranger whose entirety was hidden by a metal rack replete with chemistry dishes and instruments; but the rack gave way to the stranger's face at time with his body (though this one Sherlock saw some tenths of second after) and he was in utter shock for a second, only one second in which he didn't inhale as he would have otherwise, and his heart clenched, and so his brain didn't receive more oxygen in any way, for one second.

But hardly anything could be that shocking already.

- I have found a compound which doesn't precipitate by anything other than hemoglobin! He continued loudly announcing his triumph.

John Watson's (formerly "Stranger") eyes widened, and in such a way he observed the curious creature in front of him, of whom Stamford had spoken with reserve and redundancy.

Their reactions had different meanings:

Sherlock Holmes tried not to think about sexuality for anything other than establishing the motives for a crime, when he saw the clues of the sexual act; those thoughts he didn't avoid, sexuality then presented itself as a crude truth about the world, and if there was something Sherlock Holmes would never betray, that was the truth.

However this immaculate loyalty to the truth wasn't heartfelt as much as it was an incorrigible perk of his; Holmes' feelings were weaker than his intelligence, they had no arguments to debate what he observed and induced, and deduced; his statements were made before his emotions could intervene, by the time he was aware of them, all he could do is judge them under the light of reason: 'this is sad but I can't do nothing about it', 'despite my rage this is right, my rage is ridiculous', 'I don't understand why people feel tenderness towards kids, they are like us only with less experience, young somewhat innocent individuals which doesn't make their cruelty any less intentional'. Of course Holmes' judgment failed from time to time; he was that kind of genius whose abilities are spread in a wide variety of ways, so that he cannot attain the level of yet human perfection which specialists gain; no, he wasn't the best man alive at any field; sure, he was the best detective because his powers of deduction were most thoroughly employed in that kind of work, but he wasn't the best at deduction from every possible point of view.

So as we were saying, sometimes he wished the truth wasn't but he couldn't block it the way emotional people do, not even in intent of avoiding it; his intent was evident to him and so was evident he was trying to construct lies from the ever present truth. In this manner Holmes knew he could carry the life of a sincerely devoted monk, waiving any sexual act with only being determined about it (at this sometimes it helped gritting his teeth, or straightening, or keeping his chin farther away from his neck so this one would seem elongated, or briefly shaking his head with lightness, etc., etc.), but indeed it required power of will for he was very aware of being human and a sexual individual; and which he wished he could deny with more impetus, was that he admired women's beauty, had without intent imagined them many times in impure thoughts, but when it came down to being in love he was by far more inclined to falling in love with a man. He had never had a woman as his friend, he despised his misogyny and yet it rang true to him, very well substantiated; instead he had had very few close male friends in his life and somehow he had fallen in love with each and every one. Sexual thoughts didn't come to his mind when being near to these friends or remembering them, not of the dirty nature that they did about women, but his chest felt warm and his heartbeat accelerated and he grinned happily, and when being near the thought had occurred to him to kiss them; and so he wanted to deny truth but he couldn't, so at his mid-twenties he had decided with sadness equivalent to a small puddle of tears to resign to the fact that he would always be profoundly lonely if he wanted to do what was correct.

So then he saw this formerly "Stranger" John Watson – Pleased to make your acquaintance Mr. Holmes. Who he didn't want to live with but wouldn't have a choice since his pockets were empty; how could he live with someone that gorgeous? That only one second of shocked asphyxia was because Sherlock Holmes had never seen a man as beautiful as that John Watson. In his mid-twenties, Watson sometimes let his mustache grow but sometimes he shaved clean; Holmes met him shaved clean and his lips were full and more red than those of the average man, yet a little bit chapped, testifying of his manly nature; Holmes didn't know efforts had been made to assess the beauty of human face mathematically so his gaze wasn't of mathematical precision but it was something akin, and the harmony of this John Watson's face struck him, each trait in perfect harmony with the next, and the next with the next and the former with the next two; his eyes were big and of a blunt blue, not dark blue so that in the shadows they were black, not light blue so that under the sun they were grey as his own, not green blue so that at times they changed tone, no: they were of the only shade of blue possible in eyes to have them look always as blue; his hair was blond and sleek and preciously combed, one could have said coquettishly arranged, but of course frugal, of men, with the edge of business; his attire was sharp speaking of a hint of frivolity but also of a classy taste that didn't come naturally to any less fine personality; the proportion of each part of his body spoke of agility and strength; and the eye rings said that even when by all other proof he had once been accommodated and definitely was favored by society, he had now gone through those hardships which rendered him a man.

- Pleased to make your acquaintance Mr. Holmes.

To cap it all he had a grave voice weirdly mixed with a soothing and even soft quality; yes, Holmes noted the slight bell of arrogance in it, it said that: 'all I have known is that I am a most cherished individual by society' and this was the only ugly trait Sherlock Holmes saw in this new acquaintance of his; a very small wrinkle appeared by the side of his nose, by his cheekbone, something that wouldn't turn into a sneer because he was polite: he had decided it was his duty to humble him before he were to take rooms with him, 'he should know too who he was dealing with', that's when he threw his deductions at his face:

- I see you've been in Afghanistan.

- How on earth did you know? !

- Ah! That! And he chuckled to himself. – The question now is about hemoglobin; no doubt you see the significance of this discovery of mine?

Yes, Watson observed Mr. Sherlock Holmes with wide eyes, asking himself 'is this man as intelligent as he seems?' Holmes was in his mid-twenties just as him and yet he had so many more wrinkles: the ones between his brows were deep and forever there, and a lot of small more superficial ones - some indeed long - were on his forehead, so his face was permanently a relaxed grimace of deep thought; it was of course not only that: his experiments, apparently with hemoglobin and others, his fast deduction, the beginning of a mocking or at least condescending sneer he had seen, how he licked his completely chapped lips from time to time with a tinge of irreverence and his disheveled hair saying he had pulled at it, and probably ruffled it while he was seeking for that compound.

When they met, Holmes and Watson were friendly enemies.

That article on the newspaper which Watson had scorned had changed things; the role each would play had been more inexorably settled especially since he had brought it up with the express purpose of impressing Sherlock Holmes too with his own intelligence.

- What ineffable twaddle! I never read such rubbish in my life.

- What is it?

- Why, this article. I see that you have read it since you have marked it. I don't deny that it is smartly written. It irritates me though. It is evidently the theory of some arm-chair lounger who evolves all these neat little paradoxes in the seclusion of his own study. It is not practical. I should like to see him clapped down in a third class carriage on the Underground, and asked to give the trades of all his fellow-travellers. I would lay a thousand to one against him.

- You would lose your money. As for the article I wrote it myself.

Holmes' reply came without an inch of indignation, in fact he was smiling indulgently; at last it would be known to them both, unquestionable, that he was the smarter of them both, that he was a genius, and that his humility took nothing from it, that his general low-key manner before strangers (except during his cases, but that was yet to be known) was only that: a manner.

- You!

- Yes, I have a turn both for observation and for deduction. The theories which I have expressed there, and which appear to you to be so chimerical are really extremely practical, so practical that I depend upon them for my bread and cheese.

They were in the living room after breakfast, actually, Watson was finishing his tea while reading the paper and Holmes was looking at the street sitting on the stool that the window's parapet formed.

- Would you be as kind as to come near the window for a moment Dr. Watson? He did without a comment, knowing that was supposed to settle their discussion. - Take that man for example, he is a retired sergeant of the Marines: he has a great blue anchor tattooed on the back of his hand, he wears his sideburns in the crisp military cut that is regulation, if we consider that he is middle-aged and walks about with an air of command to him that only comes with a high rank, I can tell he was a sergeant.

Watson's left eyebrow rose in a disdainful manner; then the man came up to their rooms to deliver the letters he had in in his hand - For Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and he asked: - Please excuse my curiosity good man, but my friend here insists he can guess what people's profession is with just looking at them, would you be as kind as to resolve our conundrum by telling us if you had another profession before this one, and what it was? He put a hand to his hip and turned a smug face to Holmes, and when he heard it he went rigid. - Indeed I had, I was a sergeant, Royal Marine Light Infantry.

Wide-eyed, from then on Watson would amuse himself asking Holmes to deduce the most futile of things, he hardly ever erred and Watson was obliged to concede: Holmes was the more admirable of them both. He started to blush in shame, his own stupidity astounded him when it was regretfully unavoidable that he spoke his thoughts to Holmes; Holmes saw this and felt pleased with himself, but even more pleased with Watson; the high regards were thus mutual and they easily became friends.

Holmes took Watson to watch him box. When they came back home, when stepping down the hansom Watson had to help Holmes come up to their rooms, with one arm around his waist, Holmes had one arm over his shoulders, and Watson held onto it too to offer more support.

Holmes was a fine boxer; he had defeated them all, endured five fights (which of course didn't adhere to the official rules of the time about the number of rounds and their duration, and even with the unofficial box rules they followed, Holmes had knocked three of them out before the time expired). The shabby organizer called to the crowd: "Who is willing to dare the champion?", he asked "Who will be the man to defeat him?", and so the challengers emerged from that swamp of heads, stepped down the unstable old wood stands; Holmes' eyeballs spanned them well opened, no one but Watson would have suspected that he was calculating his moves determined by his notice of their weaknesses. But at the last fight the contender's fist had reached his temple and cheekbone, and Holmes' feet weren't fast enough to react to the strength of it, and so he had flopped down to the ground while his feet had still been trying to maintain him standing and he had sprained his right ankle horridly, his ligaments stretched, indeed bit by bit as it all occurs but fast, until they snapped. He sat up in an instant (he wasn't that dizzy though his brain had floated left and right in the liquid) and raised his hand which meant "time", or "stop the fight, I can't endure it anymore"; the referee who was also the shabby organizer inclined on him and so he told to his ear above the screams: - My ankle. The fight was stopped and after deliberation Holmes won anyway, by points.

And now Watson had to replace the strength of Holmes' right leg to take his weight, on top of that his ribcage was heavily bruised, his knuckles' skin washed away, and his eyebrow split open.

- But you aren't dizzy, are you Holmes? He asked as they went down the hansom.

- No… But he wasn't even properly, energetically hopping on his left leg. – I'm just exhausted.

Watson helped him sit slowly on the couch of the living room.

- Take off your shirt. He told him as he went for the medicine kit.

The first thing he tended to was his brow, which had been still letting a few drops of blood slide down his face and Holmes had had to formerly wipe off with his fingers in a fast stroke before they went to his eye; he was already squinting anyway, with the pain of the injury and some of his salty sweat sifting into his eye by its corners.

Watson cleaned the sweat from his face with a towel, cleaned the wound. – Look at me. He forced himself to fix his eyes on him, and Watson assessed it would only need stitches.

He put the thread through the needle and turned again to him. – This is painful.

- I've received stitches before Watson. Before him, Holmes even stitched himself. "Ouch!... ouch!, ouch!" he exclaimed to his own amusement, but let the needle in and out without hesitation.

When he was done (Holmes had gone without uttering a complaint), he looked at it up close, his left hand always on Holmes' neck and now his right on his cheek, temple and ear. – Look at me. Again his grey eyes were on him. – Perfect. He said and knelt down, rolling up the right leg of Holmes' pants, revealing completely one nastily swollen ankle, the swelling extending both over his instep and his calf. Watson hissed and put his fingers on the foot, beginning to examine; he gently moved it one way, then the other, and back, and in circle, - Does it hurt?, he kept asking and by Holmes' unwilling reactions and willing responses he could tell he had partly snapped his ligaments. – You have a sprain from second to third degree, but you didn't snap your ligaments completely, so it will have to heal without surgery. For now, I am bringing a bowl so that you submerge it on freezing water, alternating it with hot water, I'm bandaging it and you're taking a bath.

Holmes nodded and smiled at him. – Well, did you at least enjoy the match?

He smiled back. – Thoroughly until this happened to you.

- No need to be exceedingly polite old boy.

He smiled again. – Well then… thoroughly. And he went for the bowls.

As Watson, without much assistance from Holmes was submerging his foot in one bowl and then in other, Holmes was beginning to drift off; the change from extreme temperatures hardly bothered him and he was more exhausted than he had let on. It was Watson's finger pads on his ribs which made him open his eyes since he had last closed them, now he put his left hand on his shoulder and continued examining him with his right. – What do you feel when I make pressure Holmes?

- Nothing but a faint tad of pain.

- Tell me if it hurts more at one spot.

But it didn't. – Come on then, - putting one knee on the couch his arm was again surrounding Holmes' waist as he draped Holmes' arm over his shoulders – the bath must be ready for you at your room and then you can sleep.

- You're awful kind Watson.

Since Watson was a very caring attentive doctor, he was the one to unbutton Holmes' pants always hugging his waist to give his - for now - one-legged friend support, they fell to the ground and he pulled Holmes' knee-height underwear down, with Holmes sitting at the edge of the bathtub he was able to untangle them from his feet and leave him naked. He helped him again to step into the tub, and sit down carefully. Holmes smiled at him and Watson padded his back: 'it was nothing'.

He washed himself.

- Watson!

Watson came into the room again and now helped a dripping Holmes step out of the bathtub. Holmes chuckled. – You're now drenched too.

Watson grinned. – Not to worry, I'm taking a bath myself, and – he took the towel – solving the problem for now. He dried his friend's body with an odd mixture of gentleness and hastiness; since they were both men and he a doctor and weren't supposed to be ashamed of it, he even passed the towel by Holmes' genitals. He handed him one clean nightshirt which Holmes easily slid on; he raised his head to look at Watson who smiled at him, in which Holmes thought he saw regret, and then he was by his side again, helping him to bed.

Watson sat at the edge of the bed after bandaging his foot, as if he didn't want to leave. – Rest now Holmes, tomorrow I'm bringing you crutches so you can walk around easily.

Holmes extended one arm and surrounded Watson's forearm with his hand; he gave a reliable fast grip. – Thank you Doctor.

With that Watson stood up.

The atmosphere had been tense and at the same time peculiarly comfortable all along. No conclusions had been made on the part of either party, but what was certain was they didn't think of the other as before, Holmes began to sense himself falling in love yet again with his one closest friend and Watson felt rawly allured by him; Holmes' fighting skills had impressed him and the sight of his naked body screamed at his brain that he was before perfection, he had reverently handled that body albeit with mild recklessness that reminded him of the companionable way he and his friends of the army used to push each other, or of his wrestling games when he was a kid.

Holmes only wanted to use one of the crutches.

Scotland Yard suffered while he healed, because apparently it wasn't enough that he told them exactly what to do, they still discarded valuable evidence and screwed up all carefully schemed plans of capture.

- He ran away Holmes. Lestrade informed him perplexed.

- But how? ! You had him in the palm of your hand!

But when Lestrade stammered his explanation all was clarified.

Months later, on an idle Sunday Holmes talked about how much he wanted to go back to the "ring" and how he probably would sometime next week. A sudden flirtatious way took over Watson. – And what if I was the one challenging you now Holmes?

Holmes, was intrigued. – Do you practice box Watson?

He grinned. – Not at all. But I've always been good at sports. I'm honest in telling you there hasn't been a single rugby team I have ever belonged of which I haven't been the star and captain.

Holmes smirked devilishly. – Well well Watson, I thought your war injuries had managed to put you down, - Watson looked fleetingly indignant – I should have known better, seeing we were speaking of a gentleman of great stamina such as yourself.

He huffed. – You mock me.

- Not at all. But I'm still not well enough to fight. What do you say if we test you? Would you be willing to pit against someone else today?

Watson scowled and pursed his lips, in consideration of the tantalizing idea; that was the moment that Holmes first thought of kissing this particular close friend of his. Finally Watson's eyes lit up somewhat mischievously. – Suuure, - he dragged and grinned - why not! They shook hands and when it was seven in the night they were going to the unofficial boxing ring joint.

To prove how brave he was, within entering Watson was putting his name in the list, 'he was so ready' he wanted to say, 'that the fight could come as soon as it came'. Holmes put his hand on his nape and laughing loud and openly shook him a bit, indeed proud. They sat at a stand and Watson proved to be even more daring when saying, his grin ever present – I am a fool, I forgot my wallet… I surely would have bet on myself. Holmes responded with two clacks. – Don't worry dear friend, I'm betting on you and we're splitting the lot what do you say? Watson nodded and Holmes fulfilled his wishes, addressing one of the organizer's helpers he placed what could be considered a large sum in favor of his friend.

And so the match started. If there was something good to say about that joint was that the organizers weren't quite so brutal; with everything else like stopping the fights, they always tried to match the weights of the opponents, and so Watson was in a fair fight. His leg hurt him from time to time but his adversary was a novice just as himself; and he had spoken the truth, Watson was skillful, his adversary was only ordinary. No one knocked no one, it lasted the full six rounds and even though from the beginning of the second half of the fifth round Watson began to be inferior, due to the pain of his leg and shoulder, and by the end of the sixth round he was receiving a fit of brutal blows, he had already crudely marked his opponent during all the previous rounds, indeed beaten him to a pulp, and won by points. Holmes, who had been shouting at him what to do throughout the whole match, even if he didn't hear or obeyed him, finally could breathe freely; he shouted and jumped on one foot, his arms in the air, running to Watson with a limp. He cleaned Watson's sweat from his face with his hand, - I knew you'd win! he told him euphoric, perhaps a bit indulgent but at the moment believing himself, and dragged him out of there after gathering their winnings. Since the fifth round he had held himself up from jumping into the "ring" and making of himself a human barricade while begging to stop the fight, it now turned out to be a delightful torture.

They kept talking about the fight in the hansom, restless; the jokey kept hearing their sometimes indistinct overlapped shouts:

- Brutal hook!..

- I thought…

- Perhaps if you…

- … distracting me!

- If you'd heard me!..

- … ball of meat!

Cackles. Wheezes.

When they came into the living room Watson dropped over his armchair, and Holmes, on his own account, entirely volunteering, brought the medical kit with him; he stood before him. – In times when I didn't have a doctor with me I used to tend to my wounds myself. I am almost a professional at it. If you will allow me.

Watson allowed him, being confronted with a touch gentler than he had dared use. He gaped minimally, perhaps impressed by Holmes' delicacy; quite involuntarily his gaze followed closely Holmes' face as he committed in cleansing all the scratches and slits, and relieving some of the pain from the bruises by applying ointment; each time Holmes looked at Watson's eyes, his blue ones were already fixed on his.

- You impressed me the other day. He said suddenly.

- What day?

- When you fought… You're a most impressive man – "man", not fighter, not boxer, not detective; this choice of words didn't pass unnoticed to any of them - aren't you Holmes?

Holmes smiled faintly. – I don't think so.

Silence ensued, as the cotton with alcohol brushed Watson's cheekbone.

-… Well I do. He said at last.

Holmes smiled faintly again. – You're always telling me things of the sort Watson; you're kind, and you like to commend people only because it makes them feel good.

It was Watson's turn to smirk. – I assure you, that's not entirely true my good fellow. I have never enjoyed being left behind.

Holmes was finished and so he put his eyes on Watson's again, 'I enjoy being left behind by you' they both understood he was saying. He brushed Watson's cheek with the back of his fingers quickly, like lightning. – There, you have your pretty face back. He told him, and they both had to smirk.


	2. Chapter 2

After that day, flirting was a common interaction between the two of them. Knowledge sunk in both; a secretive smile, Holmes' wink during a case but also so not constrained only to the case, Watson complaining that Holmes should take a bath and yet he sniffed his shoulder more deeply to say: - Seriously! Holmes! You smell like horses!... Each began to make himself with the idea of being "together"; since no danger was envisaged while they flirted the whole problem of the illegality of it slipped from their minds: no one would know if they didn't suspect already, as they did themselves.

And during a case they were cornered, exactly, in the dark corner of a room, expecting the felon to step in to tackle and arrest him. It was a cold night and Watson began to shiver, though Holmes was shivering already he still expressed concern; he touched Watson's hand, feeling it frozen, and whispered to his ear: – Can you still stand the cold Watson?

Watson nodded and turned his face to look at him, reminding him of what was important, he put a finger in front of his own lips, 'shh' he was saying. Holmes smiled, and without any warning Watson's finger passed from his lips to Holmes', tapping them lightly, as if insisting on the importance of remaining quiet; this only widened Holmes' smile. Grinning he took that hand, pressed it against his chest, and quite much more serious, brought it up and kissed the tip of the three fingers at reach once joined, with a mere brush of his lips… Watson gaped slightly and observed Holmes' eyes, enamored and happy on him; he put a finger to his lips again to conclude 'quiet' and he took his hand away.

The capture was successful and they talked about it animatedly in the hansom way to Baker Street; at the arrival they just split ways at the top of the stairs, each going to his room as if oblivious of what had happened.

It was until next morning when Watson was met by Holmes' back when he opened the sitting room's door to have breakfast; he was at the end of the room standing but reading something, a sheet, over his desk, hunching a bit, his hands supported on the piece furniture; Watson walked over to him and tried to look at the paper over his shoulder, he also placed a hand on one side of Holmes' waist thus practically hugging him. – What are you reading? – Gregson sent me a whole letter about a case, the scene of the crime is gone, he thought he had solved it and now he has just found a dead end, three weeks after the investigation started. He's hoping I solve it merely by reading all his observations. – And? That's when Holmes straightened and turned around, Watson's hand returning to its usual place by its owner's side; he handed him the letter; since they were so close, when showing it in his hand for him to take it, the letter had been between their chests. Holmes turned a bit more, supporting his low back on the edge of the desk, his left hand on the edge too but farther away, so that when Watson supported his low back on the desk too, it was his turn to be practically hugging him. – See for yourself.

Watson read it as he had himself suspected: to no avail. – Well I don't understand, it seemed he was going the right way all along and then this happens, I'm afraid it's a dead end indeed.

Holmes smiled, took the letter back. – No it isn't.

Watson detached, served himself a cup of tea and drained it still standing, as if it was a shot of something alcoholic and he had an urge to be intoxicated. – I'm running late. Holmes didn't reply. Watson gazed at him, with more length than usual. – I'll be back around eight, he finished; Holmes' eyes snapped up to him because he never told him when he would be back, and he saw him jogging out of there.

'Had he told him he'd be back at eight, because he wanted him to be there at eight too? Was it just a saying? Was it only showing his new earned consideration?'; any of the alternatives were possible and neither would change Holmes' plans; for the day he was answering Gregson's doubts and making more experiments, waiting for something other to arrive.

At eight the room was dark, light came from the chimney's flames and their luminosity played on Holmes' square face, giving way to curves in light and shadows, then extending, shrinking and extending; he was sitting in his armchair, facing them. Both Holmes and Watson had always been too narrow for the wide space of the armchairs; and so when Watson sat next to Holmes, hip to hip though bringing his knees to his chest, it wasn't uncomfortable. Holmes supported his temple on Watson's shoulder as his left arm, before on that of the armchair, slid a bit closer posing on Watson's side.

- Did you solve it?

- I don't know.

The firewood creaked and the flames were met by the air, in this interaction emitting a low sound of wind.

- I diagnosed many things.

- Were you right at least once?

Watson's face was animated by a twisted weak smirk. – I think so, more than once. Holmes' right arm surrounded the front of his abdomen, holding him properly. – At least fifty percent of the times.

- I'm glad at least fifty percent of your clients will recover.

- I don't know if I prescribed what was correct though.

- Mon Dieu!

Watson chuckled, Holmes smirked.

And so Watson's head turned to look at him, Holmes lifted his head and inclined it back, over the back of the chair. Watson caressed his cheek, feeling his stubble in detail, as if there was something there to discover. Holmes turned towards him a bit, slightly, closing his eyes and placing his right hand over Watson's on his cheek, and that's when his close friend kissed him, pecked his lips actually, lightly. In return Holmes pressed his lips to Watson's lightly too, but they stayed there more time, until they applied the slightest of pressures over his upper lip, closing on it. Only Holmes remembered the door wasn't locked, but Mrs. Hudson never went in without knocking. Watson's lips opened and Holmes repeated the gesture, though this time they covered the kissed lip further. Until then their heartbeats sped up significantly. Watson's tongue flipped over Holmes' bottom lip. They came apart only slightly to reunite again, and have their tongues meet after Holmes' had slid over Watson's lower lip to the immediate insides of his mouth. It was still a soft tender kiss, but the moistness spoke more blatantly of sensuousness, and they separated both in their purpose of neither losing his head. In fact it was until that moment that it downed on both of them, just how insane and depraved they were being, how unwise, flirting with each other as if they were any other straight potential couple; but neither stood up, they stayed staring at the fire for long forty minutes yet, nestled against the other.

Holmes didn't dream of Watson, but when he woke up, when he woke up, his first thought was that of the image of Watson's smirking perfectly elegant face. He rubbed his face and mentally damned the world, foul words came in a fluid stream to his brain, he was as fast to create chains of syllogisms as to knit chains of curses.

Watson didn't sleep well; he slept for about half an hour and woke up, all through the night, when going to bed he stayed awake yet for three hours. His thoughts went from Holmes to the women he had ever had a relationship with, back to Holmes and just how much the low of his stomach manifested his lust for him, his desire expanded by all of his body and then Holmes had his legs surrounding his waist, strong legs which could have crushed him. Next Holmes was hugging him as before, languidly on the armchair, and he felt just as fully happy as he had been there. Then he had a nightmare and he woke up and Holmes was at his back, whispering something unintelligible to his ear and neck, something about calming down. "Can you still stand the cold Watson?"; one could have thought Holmes was about to offer him his coat. Suddenly he was in front of him, cavalier "You know I'm not like any of your past sweethearts", and how could Watson disagree?

And five weeks went by without any mention or allusion of any type to the "incident", as they both had separately decided to consider it in their own minds; the "incident", which wasn't by any means a well-known, thoroughly defined category.

They had almost turned back to be friends for good until Holmes broke a cup of wine, having some pieces wedge into his hand; he was gritting his teeth and so Watson knew he was furious; and his stomach fluttered and his pulse sped up, and even though his friend suddenly smiled theatrically, and the woman next to him rose her eyebrows in a gesture of sincere worry, Watson was smiling arrogant.

The woman next to him was a client, the place was their living room, the wine was being sipped in celebration of the client's jewels returning to her thanks to the sleuth, and the woman had placed her hand on Watson's upper arm and Holmes had put his cup of wine back on the little table shattering it in the brusque, strong, irate movement.

Holmes whistled fake laughter. – Look at her Watson, so sweetly concerned about an old dog! You're delightful Miss Faraday. The sarcasm was lost on her though not the oddness and she was increasingly uneasy, her hand naively gripping Watson's upper arm more tightly.

As pleased as Watson was, knowing Holmes never let himself get carried away and he was the cause of this completely new event in his life, he tried to break the tension. – This happens to him all the time, he said, faking much more genuine laughter. – That's why he has a doctor sharing rooms with him. Miss Faraday faked laughter too, nervously. – He is the most careless man I've ever known!

They all laughed. – An infamous brute! Concluded Holmes, acquiring increasingly an attitude more like that of an uneducated thug, while he cackled and his destroyed hand applauded against the other, tainting it and splattering drops to the floor.

At last Watson took pity on scared Miss Faraday, detached her enamored hand from his arm and politely proclaimed the night over. – It is best if I start tending to his wound before he makes it worse, and it is getting late, I'm afraid we'll have to regretfully say goodbye for the evening, we wouldn't want you to get mugged now would we?

Miss Faraday smiled now sincerely and more relaxed. – You're right. Well thank you again Doctor Watson, thank you Mr. Holmes, I shall recommend your services.

Gentlemanly Watson accompanied her to the door, stopped a hansom for her, assured her she hadn't bothered the detective in the slightest as she expressed she assumed, gave her his hand helping her to climb and waited outside until the horses had carried it more than a block away.

When he came back Holmes had his hand bandaged already, but he hadn't stopped fuming. - They all want you don't they Watson? He was pacing by the room, like a caged animal; and how attractive Watson found that!, a man, wild with jealousy because of him, pacing as if trapped; his stomach reinitiated its fluttering, he was feeling so flattered emotion was making a ball in his chest, as if his heart swelled bigger with each palpitation. - They all want to put their hands on you.

- I'm going to have to disagree Holmes, sometimes they want you. Holmes was still pacing. - Are you jealous Holmes?

Though he had asked just to hear him, ready to rush to him for a kiss, Holmes stopped and snapped: – You know perfectly well that I am!; his reaction being too intense for his former intention to work.

Watson ceased smiling until then; he remembered their problem was a serious one. Holmes began pacing again. When he continued, it was with a lower voice, calmer but still with an ominous edge. – I don't want you to go off and marry some uneducated, naïve, weak woman. I know it is not their fault, but that doesn't make it any less true. If I was one of them I would have already disguised as a man in order to get a more proper education, I'd have a business and I wouldn't obey any man.

- Yes Holmes, but nobody would think a disguise to work that well until they saw one of yours.

He stopped again, exasperated that Watson wasn't helping him get his point through, inhaled deeply and turned to look at him. – I'm going to be clearer: - And then his face was imploring mercy at the world. – I want you Watson. God help me I want you!... to be with me.

Watson's shoulders sagged, his eyelids obscuring his vision, he felt properly defeated, almost as if he would fall back; he rushed to him and Holmes straightened wild-eyed when realizing his intention, waiting for him, his arms began to open. Watson pushed himself into the embrace making him take two steps back; constrained in the strong clam of Holmes' arms they were kissing for the second time. The rashness of the kiss served to state that it was time to succumb to their depravities, that there was no way around it while they were friends, and even more while they were living together; but Watson was all lust, his tongue insisted in feeling as much as it could, he wished Holmes would press harder against him, his hands could still painfully drag down to the sides of Holmes' stomach; he was getting hard. Holmes, always the more reasonable of them both, stopped the kiss before it got too far. – This cannot be vulgar, he asserted in a gasp, but kindly let his nose touch Watson's.

Next morning, Holmes didn't wake up on his own account, instead he felt something akin to soft moist rubber on his eyelid (he was yet drowsy and a part of him in dreamland, so whatever it was didn't properly register); in time with a kiss over his ear, the nature of it clearer, he opened one eye, the one that didn't still feel the weight of the recent touch. Then Watson was murmuring: - Good morning Holmes, and a hand was flattening his hair; he opened his other eye. – Lestrade is in the living room asking for you, and I'm leaving. See you later old boy. He saw Watson's grin, in a snap he was gone.

Holmes almost wanted to stay in bed only to relive calmly how he just had woken up, in the sweetest way he could have imagined, it was his own version of hearing birds and rain and being hit by a ray of midday sun on your closed eyelids, perfumed clear air entering by your mouth. But he put on his dressing gown and smiled foolishly at Lestrade all along, - Can't you see this is serious Holmes? Lestrade admonished with enraged eyes; Holmes watered on his fury right away - Of course, a most grave situation; a minute later Lestrade repeated - Holmes! Surely you understand the seriousness of the matter!, - Of course, we must solve it right away. That happened about four times, with Lestrade ending up wondering if he had something on his teeth or face, perhaps his nose wasn't clean.

They didn't see each other that day; when Watson was opening the main door, Holmes was hiding behind a cask in some sort of forlorn front garden somewhere in the northeast of London; when Watson was opening the door to the living room, Holmes was looking at two silhouettes shown in the second story illuminated window, one was that of the clerk who lived there, but the other was of a taller man, of broad back with a cigar in his mouth; and when Watson was looking for him in his room, a bullet apparently from nowhere was inserting into the cask and Holmes was realizing he had made a mistake but didn't know which, there was no option left for him but to run fast in the hope a second shot didn't get him.

By the time he arrived to his home, at six in the afternoon of the next day, he had surprisingly apologized to Lestrade because he had been seen, "I should have known" he said as always, and though with more difficulty and chaos, the criminals had been persecuted here and there until being arrested; his trousers were mud-thick, grease-smeared and probably ruined forever, and his favorite hat had been lost.

When Watson came in two hours later, he was received with a – I shall never again wear my own hats to hide my face.

- What happened?

- My favorite hat is gone.

- Oh Holmes, I'm so sorry, said Watson with a mocking smirk.

- Yeh, laugh all you want, since what this means is that I'll probably be wearing your hats from now on.

But Watson did cackle, in good spirits; and he was contagious, because previously grumpy Holmes, rightfully frustrated with himself more than with the loss of his hat, was looking at him and smiling. - Come on now Watson, be sympathetic!

Watson ceases slowly, could put his coat on the clothes stand, take his hat off, and slump on his armchair. - I did have a positively disastrous day.

- Did you now?

- A patient died from tuberculosis… He was old and weak, and the disease had been going on for a month already, but I had hope… I guess I always have hope even when I'm telling their families that there isn't any but… It is yet always a disappointment and a sad sad thing.

He then didn't like having met him with his hat problem; he put a hand over his to offer him comfort, stood up, and with one hand gently on his cheek kissed the other one. He smiled when Holmes hunched further to be at eye level with him, his grey eyes as tender as they could be, because it wasn't his fault nor reflective of the truth that they always shined like steel. – It's not that bad really, I'm used to it; you and I both know that people die all the time, despite both our best efforts… War was much much worse. He pecked the tip of his nose and his smile widened. – Now I'm feeling guilty at having made you worry this much.

- Oh I'm not that worried. They both grinned.

– Really Holmes, I didn't know you were this sweet.

He shrugged. – Well, if you like it I may as well sacrifice.

At that Watson's grin slowly ended up fading away, softened, in love, surrounded Holmes' neck and pulled him down for a deeper kiss; this one lasted, more than two minutes and they still didn't break away.

- Did you know you're very very handsome? He told Holmes, when they were breathing.

- Yes I did.

They chuckled lowly, and briefly.

- Did you know I think you are the most beautiful man I've ever seen?

- Beautiful? !

And he snickered. – Well it's true! Handsome!, handsome if you prefer! Watson pulled him down and they kissed again, just as long. – If Mrs. Hudson heard us, do you have any idea of how ridiculous we sound?

Watson grimaced slightly. – Yes we do, and I'm ashamed, let's not think about it. He pulled Holmes to the chair. – Come, sit down. And they kissed again, longer even. – You're just so alluring, I can't help myself.

- That alluring?

- Look at you! And he ran his gaze across Holmes from head to toe. – So strong, and lean, your waist is so narrow. Your face, you have an interesting face.

- When you say interesting it sounds like you're saying ugly.

- Not at all. He kissed him again, for so long.

It was with kisses that they said good night that evening. Over the next days, when being in the same room they would be kissing, they hardly talked coherently anymore; Holmes didn't speak of his cases or experiments, so Watson had no idea of what was going on with his life apart from the kisses, and two of Watson's patients were on the brink of death, in the surgery table an artery had snapped and splashed blood all over him, and Holmes didn't know either; their hands touched more, sliding from their heads and necks to their chests and sides, and sometimes even their legs; it was to both of them such an adrenaline rush daily, that nothing else mattered, it felt as when Holmes had started feeling addicted to cocaine, forcing himself to rehabilitate.

One day, which had gone by without any particularity, Watson opened the button of Holmes' trousers; Holmes immediately felt his head spinning, and Watson too, though he had thought himself in control. – Do you want to? Holmes murmured out of breath. And Watson answered in an exhalation. – Yeah. – Lock the door?, came in the same way. – Yeah. Holmes reluctantly parted, his legs feeling like jelly as he walked to lock the door.

But they didn't stay there; Holmes still dragged Watson by the hand to his bedroom, which door he locked too. They kissed against the door, completely stuck one to the other, trying to be able to breath somewhat normally again, but they couldn't so when giving up they walked like that to the bed, where they laid. Holmes had to undo Watson's vest. – Why do you have to wear a vest at home? – Don't I look nice? – You'll look nicer without it; then he pulled Watson's shirt over his head and Watson did the same with his next, only having to pull his braces down before. They both were glad that neither wore union suits when looking at their naked chests, they were awful inconvenient things which they wore only in winter. Holmes ran his left hand over Watson's chest, this one was rising and falling spectacularly, giving visual support to Watson's wheezing. – Calm down. – You calm down. It was true neither was honorably calmed down. – How can I? Replied Holmes, as he began to kiss that frantic chest. It felt so good, the caress from his lips didn't resemble that from his hand, this last one was more calculating, the puffy quality of the flesh of lips and the slight moistness said sex, all the time; although suddenly his hand began to accumulate a very thin shin of sweat, and to quiver slightly; his tongue slipped on his skin with ease, like warm pressing ice. From his chest and stomach and then to his throat, Watson had to moan, more accentuated when Holmes bit a tiny part from the skin over his Adam's apple only to lick on it after. Holmes' hands trapped his waist, and then one undid the button of his trousers. They kissed again and Watson could roll on him, earnest in creating friction on all parts, he slithered over Holmes; they both gasped. Holmes kissed his cheek and Watson lowered his head to rest on his shoulder, later he kissed his neck gently as Holmes lowered his hands to begin to untie the strings from his underwear, open the button too; it was surprising, how Holmes felt more excited about the tiny kisses than about untying the underwear; however, when his hands slid slowly over the curve of Watson's buttocks, sliding down that way both his underwear and trousers, revealing bit by bit his buttocks, pelvis and hard cock, as Watson whimpered muffled against his neck and he kissed Watson's ear: that was indeed the most sensually erotic moment he would experience. When Holmes' hands were covering the totality of Watson's buttocks, he gripped them slightly eliciting a wail from him and then his left gripped his waist, while he bent his torso right a bit so his right hand could reach further and slide the clothes further down. Watson's cock was trapped naked between their stomachs and he couldn't take it anymore; so he detached from Holmes rolling on his back, and impatient finished peeling his underwear and trousers from his ankles. Immediately he thought Holmes still half-dressed wouldn't do, so on his side, looking at Holmes in the eyes as this one hugged his shoulders, he undid his underwear, touching his cock at times covered and at times exposed in part, sloppily, so Holmes bit his own bottom lip; kneeling then, he helped him get rid of the clothes. He had already seen Holmes naked before, but he realized his constant reminding of it had worn the image off; here he was again, as vivid and real as he had seen him the other day, as enticing as ever only his cock was swollen, and they were both beginning to smell like fluids, and both things were intoxicating. Kneeling astride him he took his face in his hands and inclined to kiss him, bruisingly so; he was struggling so hard to breathe that now he was moaning constantly with each exhalation; Holmes' jaw, moving in his hands felt square and rigid, and as if made of shifting tense nerves, it was a fabulous sensation; their lips were now glossy, red and slightly thicker; Holmes joined him now, cut grunts being born and dying in his throat. He grasped his waist yet again and pulled him down on top of him; Watson was now sitting on his stomach, his balls on his navel, and his cock could have easily entered him, the thought of it thrilled him but the foreplay wasn't yet nearly over; besides, when at that he thought of Watson penetrating him instead, he got a thrill just as intense. It is Watson who began now to kiss down his chest, on his knees he "stepped" back, supporting his hands on Holmes' thighs. Suddenly he took the back of Holmes' leg and made him bend it, so that he could easily kiss the inside of his thigh while kneeling; as he did, Holmes covered his eyes with his forearm and shook his head slackly, - Oh my God! he muttered. Watson was going down his right thigh as his left hand caressed his stomach, his hipbone, the side of his buttock and the beginning of the other thigh; Holmes was now gasping desperately for air, grunts and sharp inhaling taking turns, and Watson, well he was only thinking of fucking him mad. When he kissed a spot of his inner thigh, right beside his testicles, well Holmes' hips bucked and he laid over him, kissing his mouth again as Holmes' legs bent at his sides; their cocks were pressing and their testicles grazed. They were then sweating profusely, their bodies indeed radiated heat. Their kiss was at times languid, sloppily sliding from their lips to their chins. Watson whimpered softly and he wondered if he had said anything, but no; Holmes kissed slippery his jaw, and went back to his mouth. His hand felt down the muscles of Watson's back, it deviated to get a grip of his dick, which had Watson's mouth detaching from his to sigh, he pulled at it and that earned him another sigh, he let go of it and Watson licked his own lips, as if urgently substituting Holmes' which right then weren't as near. He began to push Holmes' shoulder so that he would turn around; he did and he immediately kissed his low back, for a moment gripping his shoulders, liking to feel the strength of them. He caressed his thigh with his left as his right climbed to his mouth, asking to be licked; Holmes understood this, and understood why, and agreed quite pleased. Three of Watson's fingers were covered in saliva when he brought them down and lasciviously pressed lightly his perineum; Holmes held back a cry, silencing whatever of it with the pillow. One finger entered him easily enough, it moved forward and back in a steady detained manner, a second one was more forced, but Holmes wasn't about to complain, and he thought he would neither cry in pleasure. As he saw his own hand working, Holmes tensing and relaxing, and just squirming, he felt his mouth watering, he was losing control of any reaction he could have. After he thought he had done a good job opening the entrance for him, he laid slightly over Holmes, he murmured and whispered, with a lustful voice if there was any, needy, into his ear: - May I then? Are you sure? Holmes put his hand on his nape and turned his head to kiss him; Watson's whimpers were shameless. – Do it, he whispered then. Watson took his cock to guide it and entered him, inch by inch. Holmes muffled his growl against the pillow again. They twisted and contorted, and Watson moved his hips, gently, he pushed deep, until they were both lying on their sides and Watson had a rhythm. His arms were around Holmes' chest, and his mouth and teeth scraped his neck, as Holmes exposed it well elongated. He thrust in deeper once, and Holmes sighed loudly, showing his teeth; he did it again and now Holmes grunted; he sped up. It was a prancing movement; Watson thought never before having witnessed or participated in anything quite so raunchy, and yet it was at the same time sublime, he was soaring in vulgar carnal excitement but also in loving warm; he had a mere notion of the entailed honor in pleasuring Holmes, a formed man, absolutely rational, who was now short from delirium. He took Holmes' erection in his hand and began fondling it, then moving his hand by it in time with his thrusts. It was fast, and now Holmes couldn't hold back from crying, from time to time, his eyes always closed, immersed in the feeling, unaware of anything other. Watson was hitting his prostrate each time, waves of pleasure washed over him one after another. Watson panted both because of the effort and the wonderful arousal. Holmes came and Watson, when feeling and seeing it, worn out, came too, their moans mixing one after the other. Watson still squeezed his sex gently before letting it go for the night, he kissed the end of his jaw, and after another, very small thrust of his hips, he also emerged from Holmes, yet feeling as if his ears were buzzing. He lied back and brought Holmes to lie over him; Holmes looked completely satiated and lost; he shifted to lie forward instead, his head still on Watson's chest but now it was the front part of his shoulder on it too, his eyes still closed, and before they knew it they were both asleep; both had wanted to say something, but oh well.

Holmes woke up first, feeling like a whore, because his asshole indeed felt weird, and his semen was dry on his stomach; but then again that was the true nature of it, the sexual act was something unholy, because it wasn't clean, it was sharing pleasure through acts that in any other circumstances would feel not only shameful, but like inflicted violence. Watson looked beautiful beneath him, all of him etched in gold, his skin golden, his hair golden, even his eyelashes; yes he was beautiful indeed, and he couldn't be tainted in his mind, so he thought maybe he should be as indulgent with himself and he reclined his head again and closed his eyes.

He knew Watson had woken up when he put his hand on the back of his shoulder; he moved, reincorporating somewhat and looked at him, Watson grinned.

- My lover Sherlock, he said nonchalant, boyishly joyful – so nice to see you under the light, looking as capturing as ever.

Holmes returned him a lopsided, imperceptibly regretful smile.

- I'm feeling so happy. Watson continued, surprised of his own exuberance. He looked towards the window as if looking for an explanation and scowled a little. – Isn't this a nice morning? He said more like a statement.

- How could you know? The curtains are drawn.

- I could swear I was seeing the sun upfront. He was grinning down at him again.

- You're being a bit twee Watson.

He put a hand then over his hair, felt it. - Forgive me love.

- Love? !

- What do you want me to call you then?

- Why must you call me anything? !

Watson snickered. – Oh I see! You aren't sentimental and you'll never be. It's alright, I'll let that go, it's alright. But be mindful if my mood changes.

Oh Watson was almost annoyingly ecstatic that morning, he even refused going to work, he was set to stay with "his Sherlock", maybe even assist him in a case.

- Watson you are insufferable today. Holmes told him, but he told him with a smile, lest he took it too seriously and he hurt him.

- I'm in love. Watson replied to annoy him even more, though it worked quite reversely.

- No, you are disgusting, that's what you are.

- Disgustingly in love?

- No!

Watson cackled.

In the afternoon, he scowled. – Why don't you call me John anyway?

- Not even your mother called you that.

They both laughed. – Of course she did!.. Sometimes she even called me Johnny. I'll settle for John.

- No, no, you're right. Maybe I'll call you Johnny. Are you going to work today Johnny? Can you come with me Johnny? How was your day Johnny?

- I said John!

- And I said Johnny.

- No, I prefer Watson.

- But I prefer Johnny.

- This isn't funny anymore.

- Was it ever? I've never been more serious in my life Johnny. But then he laughed; and Watson forgave him for even definitely refusing calling him John, if that turned out to be the case.

However, during the course of the afternoon, a more significant question lit up in his mind, a very troubling one; he looked at Holmes (at the moment pensive and almost nostalgic) histrionically suspicious – with the histrionics of his good mood -, that is, from the corner of his eye. - And anyway, why aren't you as happy as I am today? Man! Right now I could swear you were brooding!

Holmes looked at him fast, and resolved. – I'll be honest to you Watson, today when I woke up, what first took over my thoughts was how much I felt like a cheap rent boy. – Watson swallowed, for the first time in the day a bit uneasy. – However, your self-degrading sweetness all day long has managed to dissipate all trepidation that could have occupied me before. I'm sorry, I've been told to have a brooding face whenever I'm not smiling.

Watson was smiling again. – It's okay. He stood up to cuddle up to Holmes yet another time that day. – If you want, - he talked lowly to his ear – we can change roles tonight, I wouldn't want to risk a crisis now.

Their sex was shorter that day; Watson was hot and impatient, and beautiful, and if he wanted to impale himself over him with almost no foreplay, well Holmes could only find it exceedingly pleasing.

Their lives took a more realistic turn next day, when Watson was gone and Holmes in a case for which he didn't need his assistance; they were working instead of spending a completely useless afternoon together in a room, without going out not once. When they both were home they had sex again; two days later they were in the same bathtub. They had sex daily for almost three months, then it was every third day, then twice a week; twice a week would work for them.

They loved each other, that much was true. Holmes was so sure of their relationship, that when a female client yet again manifested her interest on Watson, he would amuse himself by making him run errands that could be mistaken by the woman as motivated in romantic interest, delegating in him much of the interaction with her. – Watson, go with Miss Sanders this afternoon to inform her about the progress made today. Watson always did what he told, even when he saw in his smirk the joke. – Watson can walk you home Miss Boyle, the streets are never safe nowadays and I'm sure it would greatly please him. Watson narrowed his eyes at him though he smiled at discretely excited Miss Boyle, who thought her romantic fantasies fulfilled.

Watson didn't know how to return the joke, it never seemed appropriate, after all, it was on the part of Holmes that no one should think anything other than he was professional; a woman spreading the word about almost initiating a romantic relationship with Sherlock Holmes, during a case, would be a blow on his career, parents no longer turning to him out of fear that he would try to woo their daughters, married or engaged nervous women… it wasn't right.

Holmes was looking at papers half naked and barefoot, smoking a cigar; somewhere in that mess he had left a wrinkled note about a chemical formula. Watson was reading and looking at him, he didn't manage to decide for one of the two activities; he had a tune in his head and he seemed content and Watson found him better that way, half naked, barefoot and content.

But then the bell rang. Holmes' mouth misshaped around his cigar so he could shout: - Mrs. Hudson! He took it out of his mouth, exasperated inclining a bit forward over his desk, to shout louder. - Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson wasn't there; he raised a brow and looked at Watson. – Do you mind John?

Nowadays he was calling him John, he called him everything: Watson in public, John often, Darling when he was more content, he even told him he was a pretty boy when due to a more sensual mood his eyes noticed it yet again, My love usually right after the previous well known declaration, when they were both murmuring things that could have been obscene modern poetry at each other. Watson oscillated from Sherlock to Darling, and even Holmes without order. – Come here you handsome man. He told him sometimes, like when he greeted him naked in his bed, knowing Holmes would return tired and irritated.

No, John Watson didn't mind, he rolled his eyes but truly didn't mind.


	3. Chapter 3

A woman was downstairs, wonderfully clad, smelling of a sensual unknown, it wasn't roses or any other flower, but it was a very nice perfume; too much black in her clothes but touches of color said she wasn't mourning; she had big green eyes and thick lips, these ones were like the petals of roses, and her white skin was soft beyond touch, intangibly soft, her waist was wasp narrow, all of her thin and yet curvy; Watson was impressed, unaffected, but impressed.

- Is this where I can find Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I would very much appreciate to obtain his services as detective. She said with a voice that was minimally spoilt, just as sensual as all of her and minimally spoilt: a little girl that always got what she wanted, even if it required that she had an adorable flying legs tantrum.

- Yes it is, please come in. If you'd be as kind as to follow me, he's upstairs.

Watson was distracted by her unusual good looks and forgot Holmes was half naked; he opened the door and found Holmes raising his eyebrows, the woman seemed completely oblivious.

- I'm sorry! He exclaimed and closed the door again. – My apologies, he said to her again. – I forgot.

She smiled briefly without showing her teeth, and her eyes continued drifting around, all over the house in an offhand observational manner - No reason to get this agitated. She answered in what was, quite an audacity at the times.

Holmes opened the door this time, completely dressed; he motioned to let them in silently.

- I remember you Miss Adler. He proclaimed once she had taken a seat.

She smiled. – Well I would have overestimated you if you didn't. Her voice was always, minimally spoilt.

That's when Watson remembered she was "The Woman", the one Holmes had a picture from in a drawer of his desk; he felt his heart wrench, all apocalyptic sensations in his chest. Holmes was sitting behind his desk again and caught Watson's stare, as if buildings were crumbling down in his pupils, with one hand on his hip, his shoulders dropped, he turned again to close the door; Holmes decided to ignore all of his dramatic motions.

- Well, in what way may I be of service to you?

- May we speak in privacy?

Watson was readying himself to leave, hurt and offended, nothing but a sad victim.

- Dr. Watson here is of complete trust. In fact I much prefer having him stay to hear all cases that are brought to me. His help is quite indispensable since he's almost the right half of my brain. - He talked too much perhaps, but he was figuring Miss Irene Adler to be the inexorable kind of client, and also flattery going a long way with upset Watson.

- That's perfectly fine then. Though from what I have heard of you, I don't see how you could need your other half of brain; it seems then that only on your left you have the capacity of four men together.

- You flatter me Miss Adler, but it is Watson exactly who has made the public believe that. I am only a common man who knows how to investigate crime and other curious phenomena. Now if you please Miss Adler, relate the matter that has brought you in search of my aid.

Irene Adler inhaled deeply and shrugged. – I lost a diamond.

- Your diamond?

- Yeeess.

- I'm sorry, I don't just look for lost objects. I choose cases because of their intellectual stimulus.

- Well, the thing is that I've been robbed. Things have started to disappear constantly, and I fired the maids, and then all the domestic staff, twice, all of them were different, and things keep disappearing. They weren't always of great value to me… but now my diamond. Who could be taking things from me if it wasn't the servants?, my husband? ! I don't think so.

Oh how freely Watson felt himself breathe again, when "The Woman" spoke of her husband, she wasn't mourning then, she was indeed still married.

Holmes took his chin between his thumb and index, squinted, and Watson knew then that he would take the case. – Curious, very curious… And they don't disappear only from one spot, but from all over the house?

- Yes, from all over.

- And what kind of objects? All of them jewelry, or at least, of significant monetary value?

- No! Once even the bell-pull disappeared!

- Interesting… So no one home except you, your husband, and the servants…

- No, no one. It hasn't happened either when I've had visits.

- Don't you perhaps have a dog? A huge dog?

Irene Adler inhaled deeply, and now she looked disappointed. – A dog huge enough to take the bell-pull. She was saying she knew that's what he was getting to.

- Well I'm just saying. People have had me investigating very trivial things before only because they didn't consider all possibilities.

She inhaled deeply again. – Well I don't have a dog, a cat, or any other animal at home; they are dirty and ruin one's properties.

Holmes couldn't help smirking; the dog theory was a bit over the top and Miss Adler seemed to have a way of having a short patience that was most sympathetic and amusing. Watson didn't like that smirk. – Alright, I'll look into it Miss Adler. If you're as kind as to leave me your address I'll be there to assess the situation at nine in the morning tomorrow, if that suits you of course.

Irene Adler stood up, walking to him. – It's perfect. She extended him a piece of paper. – I was prepared. He smiled and she didn't, but her eyes gleamed, proud and satisfied. She turned around and as she walked to the exit, again escorted by Watson, she spoke up. – I look forward to meeting you again tomorrow Mr. Holmes. And they were both out.

By the time Watson came back up, Holmes was again half naked and barefoot, his shirt by his feet on the floor near the desk; he always made himself comfortable. He walked up to him; he was writing something and didn't pay him attention. - So Irene Adler, you're taking her case.

- Isn't it a strange thing?

- Indeed, a bell-pull... god forbid you let that happen again!

Holmes smiled briefly, still not looking up. - Sharp darling. I don't know if you've noticed, but I have nothing better to do.

- Ah. He admitted. Holmes wasn't paying him attention yet. - Look at me Holmes.

He did, not a problem, Watson had put a hand beneath his chin. He leaned down and kissed the corner of his lips, and then, he knelt down, beginning to open Holmes' trousers and underwear just as soon; Holmes looked down at him, his lips already swelling. Watson was pulling and so he raised his hips a bit from the chair, allowing him to undress him completely; he also lifted his feet, cooperative. Watson immediately made him separate his legs, wide enough so his back could have room between them. He caressed the insides of his thighs slowly up and down, looking at his face with his lustful shimmering blue eyes, while his grey ones were down on him, as if detached. He took his flaccid member in his hand and gently squeezed it, fondled it, massaged it; this had an effect as he felt it warm up. Suddenly then, at last taking his eyes from the grey ones he loved so much, he hunched and took it in his mouth, hearing how Holmes inhaled deeply. He lapped against it with his tongue; his hand was surrounding the base and it began to rebel against its constriction, as it swelled. He engulfed it because he wanted to have it harden in his mouth, feel with his palate and tongue what his hand had felt; he closed his eyes when he had the desired results, very tinkling pleased. He took it out of his mouth and began laying feather kisses on it alternating with brief brushes from his tongue, while his hand gripped on the highest part of Holmes' thigh, lightly wiggling his fingers on it. Holmes still looked detached, though the state of his penis and his lips betrayed his aloof gestures; he put an elbow on the desk and rested his head in that hand, in the position someone bored would have. Sometime after, his other hand went to Watson's head and began alternatingly stroking his hair and massaging his scalp, gently, adoringly; he did adore that pretty blond head of his. Watson began truly sucking him and a minute later Holmes' chest was faster and more prominent in its rise and fall, he was taking a great amount of air in while trying to breathe calmly, his stomach sank and his ribs stuck out; soon he started panting loud. Watson grabbed his hipbones and hauled him nearer both to him and to the edge of the chair, at first the chair dragged forward with him; Holmes moaned with his deep voice, lifted his jaw from his hand but instantly settled it back, determined to enjoy the momentum with the highest indolence; his hand flattened more bluntly over Watson's skull, feeling as he was a deeper spot inside his mouth. Watson hugged his waist then and in such a way he helped himself dip, taking Holmes' dick inside him in all its length; Holmes had a moan die deep in his throat, feeling his hand hot and wet from his sweat he lifted it and fingered Watson's hair, only to lay it again heavily. His mouth released him almost entirely and then took him again, he moaned deep in his throat and fingered his blond hair. Then Watson went on like that, up and down, faster and faster though it was never too fast; he knew he could help that and so his hand slid down to gently squeeze on Watson's nape to advise him, went back to his skull and he began to move his hips gently, penetrating Watson's mouth now at his own rhythm. The wood chair began scratching the floor. He groaned, his eyes closing, he passed his left hand – which still supported him - by his own nape, unsettled; Watson had opened his eyes and got so see that along with his whole muscular naked body undulating sexually, so he freed his own erection, touched himself. Then Holmes straightened his torso and reclined back, put his head on the back of the chair, his body slouched as if draining down it, put his other hand on the same blond head to help himself, speeding up one notch. – Are you… - he panted – okay? He asked half-heartedly, because he knew Watson would have given a sign if he wasn't fine. He groaned again, alight, no part of his body found rest; his hands slid down to Watson's nape again, and his knees slung on his shoulders, his hips going faster, and faster, until they both vaguely feared the chair would fall back; in fact Watson stretched one arm to grab on the foot of it, and he would have smirked with Holmes (who had smirked at that with his eyes closed) if he could have. He could no longer touch himself, wanting to be alert to all of Holmes' delightful reactions, very alert to the feel of him sliding in his mouth. Holmes yet groaned again, loudly, very loudly; so before Mrs. Hudson wasn't there, but none had remembered about it now and the thuds of the chair were suggesting enough without the plain erotic guttural noises, they could only pray she hadn't arrived. Curiously, it was only with a relatively quiet sharp intake of oxygen that he came, releasing his seed directly into Watson's pharynx. After it he gasped and gasped, releasing Watson's head slowly as his muscles slowly distended, some staying more persistently contracted. Watson was now looking at him, expecting him to relax enough to open his grey eyes and that he would lay them on him; he had already his feet on the ground again, his cock in the air, his hands now on Watson's shoulders… it was only a matter of time. They opened at first in a very thin line, their grey shine between his black eyelashes giving them away. – Ah!, he sighed – Thank you, thank you my love, my darling, thank you. Watson smiled, all baffled, tender and blushing. Then Holmes slipped his arms beneath his armpits, holding him and inducing him to sit on him sideways. He kissed his cheek and clasped his cock, murmuring to his ear: - What have we here? Watson giggled, probably for the first time in his life; Holmes at the moment couldn't find that anything other than adorable. – I can hear you giggling sir, I am not tickling you am I? And his other hand indeed tickled his ribs, briefly. Watson laughed in breaths. – Oh stop that Sherlock, I don't want this to cease because you tickled my erection away. – Ah! I see!.. You just want me to touch you like this. His hand shut harder and quickly dragged up the length. Watson dropped his head backwards a bit, reincorporated opening his eyes again and affirming, quietly: - Yes, just like that yes. Holmes kissed partially his jaw and partially his cheek, and repeated the motion; Watson gaped, he pecked his neck. He repeated it again; a few more of those, only a few, Holmes' eyes fixed on it and a slightly more hasty rhythm and he had come, in a delicious, lazy orgasm. Holmes trapped his head between his left hand and his own head, pecking and kissing his cheek and lips reverently; Watson received all of it, only contributing to make his orgasm sweeter.

As if he was a defenseless child he curled in Holmes' embrace, Holmes leaned back, his chin on the top of his head, and they rested, blissfully free from any concern. – I love you, he said later with a content slack tone, repeating himself. – I love you more, Watson replied and Holmes didn't say anything, afraid they might fall into a competition sickeningly coated in caramel.

Maybe they were there for twenty minutes; it didn't matter as neither had anything to do. He was naked, and Watson was sitting on him and he felt his desire revived. Watson was taking an unnoticeable pleasure in keeping his limp cock out in the air all that time, for Holmes to cross it with his sight at any moment and for air to stumble with it, welcoming. Without any warning Holmes opened his trousers properly, undid the strings of his underwear, slid his lower body garments down his legs and off; unfortunately he had his vest on and Holmes just wasn't up to the task that day. He began to kiss the back of his ear; in easy mutual understanding he was that way motioning Watson to sit giving him his back. Watson was obedient, his cock hardening once more, which Holmes touched to be sure; and he whispered to the back of his ear, making him tremble: - Do you want me to John? He was feeling Holmes' erection between the slit of his ass, and his hands caressing his hips forward and back; Holmes looked down at his ass, smirking lasciviously, but returned immediately making sure he would keep breathing against the back of his ear. – Oh!, Watson moaned softly in tune with his own shiver and Holmes did the same, imitating him; Watson returned him a much more heated moan and a much more violent tremor. – I'll take that as a yes. And with that, and all proper cares, like his saliva wet fingers massaging his rectum (he had put his fingers over Watson's shoulder and neck, and licked at them like a cat, his tongue then sometimes falling over Watson's skin; then he had properly sucked them, properly wet them near his ear, making sure he would hear it); he was penetrating Watson. His motions were the same as when he had fucked his mouth, only he now just skipped over to the speed time instantly, feeling neither could hold up any longer. The more he moaned the more Watson moaned, and so he wasn't letting up, if Watson moaned louder or stifled, then he moaned louder or stifled; at one moment Watson snickered breathless, - Stop it, that's a dirty game, but Holmes only moaned in response and had the desired reaction from him, so he just kept up the game. By pressing Watson against him he was lifting him a little, allowing for his hips to move up and down, indeed he was tiring sooner; and then his hand was grabbing at Watson's dick, all at once. They both found release when he wanted; they both had learnt each other to that extent.

After five minutes Watson stood up, unbuttoned his vest and dropped it, finally being able to take off his shirt and somehow, in complete nakedness, be more decent. He offered Holmes his hand and taken by the hand they walked to the bed, both dropping on it with no other thought but to rest.

In the morning Watson startled; he was just barely waking up, rolling, barely acquiring awareness of his surroundings hoping to embrace a sleeping Holmes when this one spoke, finding him already supported on his elbow and looking at the wall as a zombie, as we said, Watson startled. – I'm supposed to observe, that's my trait and my trade, but I'll have to admit things have gone past me as of lately… For example, where is Mrs. Hudson? She wasn't here yesterday and then you knelt down all wonderful… We've been very foolish Watson; didn't she arrive while we were there? We were there for an hour; if she had she would have heard us. And then she always wakes up at six thirty and if you listen carefully, you'll hear buckets and dishes because that's the first thing she does, prepare herself a bath, and yet, it is seven in the morning, time when you wake up, and I haven't heard nothing from her… what does this mean Watson? Did she tell you where she was going and you forgot to tell me? Did she arrive yesterday and scandalized abandoned the building for the day? Or is she just missing?, which means a tragedy has befallen her.

- Or did she just oversleep?, because we don't know what she was doing yesterday and she arrived very tired.

- Yes, that could be an option too.

- Relax; if we don't hear her at eight we can start worrying.

- If you don't hear her at eight; I won't be here, I prefer arriving early than late to any appointment.

Watson remembered then; but this time it didn't get him out of his comfort, with all the love declarations and the good sex of the night before he doubted Holmes could forget about him during the whole day.

- And if I don't hear her, do I inform you by wire or something?

- No!, no!, let's not be dramatic, it's a mistake to theorize before the facts.

Watson usually left at eight, that's why he was accustomed to waking up at seven; but it was Sunday, and Sunday he usually tried to push all of his client's appointments to the space between ten and four, and all the rest to Monday, so he could sleep 'til late and have all the afternoon free.

So he stayed in bed and heard Holmes scream: - Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson wasn't there, nor fainted in her bedroom. He scratched his head, anxious and annoyed; Watson heard the clanks of dishes and buckets as Holmes unwillingly prepared his own bath; he was sure he was muttering curses besides that which he could actually hear. – One always has to do everything by himself!.. One can't rely on people nowadays… If I… Damn boiling point!

Irene Adler opened the door and it was very mysterious; the mansion was too big and surely there should be servants to perform that kind of tasks; Holmes saw his suspiciousness increased; yesterday she had already done another mysterious thing: asking to talk privately to later tell a very blah story about missing bell-pulls… 'What was she up to?, what was she up to?' And even yet Holmes was giving her the benefit of the doubt, as he really didn't know her and there was nothing to tell from her attire and their past history in that case with the King of Bohemia, except that she was indeed an audacious cute thing, and now a very rich and spoilt wife.

- I had been expecting you Mr. Holmes, hoping to receive you myself; she explained the mystery without giving the impression of intently elaborate excuses. – After that little pickle with the king of Bohemia, when I was so horribly misinterpreted, I've wanted nothing more than to meet you again in more appropriate circumstances. Remembering you in that very convincing old priest costume and the whole theatrical scandal you created always makes me laugh; I never thought I'd get to see anything quite so clever.

Holmes narrowed his eyes; he didn't distrust anything more than high praising.

- Am I mistaken to assume that you're no longer married with Mr. Godfrey Norton? Seeing you're not wearing the same wedding ring.

Irene Adler smiled, quite inappropriately considering what she would say next; that's one of the things Holmes would first learn about her: Irene Adler was inappropriate. – No, he died a year ago.

- My condolences, he muttered, not really comfortable ever with social empty phrases.

Irene Adler laughed softly; that's another thing he would know soon: Irene Adler was hard to read, while she read him like an open book unless he was disguised.

She entwined her arm in his and guided him by the mansion, showing the places where she affirmed things had disappeared. – The porcelain figure of a clown. They crossed a made and they all ignored each other; Holmes squinted again and this time Irene didn't see it.

They were in the dining room. – A portrait. The square in the tapestry was indeed more obscure than the rest of the wall, adjusting to her allegations. – My portrait actually; she sighed, contemplating the square. – I adored it; no one had ever done enough justice to my beauty except that anonymous, poor artist in Paris. In fact I think he is not anonymous, his signature was in the bottom right corner, but nobody knew him and I really didn't understand it enough to be able to tell a name; it is sad when talents are wasted.

They were in the kitchen. – A towel. The towel rail was occupied by a towel, but she meant another towel then.

Holmes was having enough; there in the kitchen he inhaled deeply. – Miss Adler, I've been curious to see what kind of missing objects you would make up, and kind enough to let you mock me this whole half hour expecting that perhaps in the next room you would tell me the truth; I won't deny that you've regaled me with a very entertaining and absurd story and I was having fun, but now I'm beginning to get a little angry, so I would just appreciate it if you said already why I'm here, what it is you want. The servants don't look like servants!, that's the problem. Now what I see is that your husband isn't here and he's not working nor in a trip, since he's another lawyer and that is the door to his office, and your bedroom had so many of his clothes that he couldn't have packed, so he's out for fun without you at this hour of morning or this is about him... Or at least that's what I'm hoping, because otherwise you would have kidnapped whoever that really lived here and we would be committing break and entering!

She laughed, nay, she exploded in laughter, cackles. Holmes had never seen any woman laugh like that; he had once seen a cowgirl, riding a horse like a man, now he remembered her because he imagined that if she had laughed she would do it like this, like Irene Adler, the two were mixing in his mind, loud and free, she even put a hand on his shoulder and tapped it; he wasn't prone neither to gape, but he gaped for a second.

- Oh! I'm sorry Mr. Holmes! But I was indeed seeing that we were both being amused by my story, I saw you smile from the corner of your lips from time to time at the increasingly absurd objects that I claimed once existed. She let another three laughs. – But you're right, now I'm just wasting your time; I just didn't want to speak in front of the doctor, and then I saw the opportunity to assure myself that you were indeed worth that I confided in you a little secret of mine; if you realized I was lying to you, you were, if you didn't you weren't.

Holmes tensed his hands, showed them, his palms upwards and his fingers like wire, exasperated. – What is it then? !

- Doctor Watson is a rightful character, you both are, and I have a lover… that's it, I didn't want him to know because it easily shames me to have people really know me. My husband is gone, I'm not sure why, he's missing… But my lover has an explosive character and he was always jealous, and I suspect him… I love them both; I want my husband back and I want to spare my lover from jail, that's it. The people you see aren't domestics, they're my friends and agreed to cooperate with my little joke; I gave the real servants the day off so I could talk to you in confidentiality. That's it.

- Miss Adler, if I must arrest your lover I will.

- Fine then, just find my husband and don't shoot my lover; police tend to do that.

- I can only promise to do my best.

Irene smiled then, grateful and sweetly, her green eyes full of Holmes. – That's all I can ask for. She took his upper arm. – Thank you.


	4. Chapter 4

IV. VAIN OR THE NOBODY... AND NOTHING

Adler was good at her "job"; only she could have thought someone capable of hiring a crowd of people, disguising, creating a very convincing fake fire alarm, just to get to see where she kept a photograph… She was just the same, skillful like no one at creating distractions; from a legitimate wedding ring which hadn't been used at any wedding, to a bunch of unnecessarily fake domestic staff, to a ridiculous story of ridiculous objects gone missing that would be brandished as a funny game, to the unlikely suggestion that social rules could shame her: only to get Holmes away from Watson, and under her scope in a fake case.

Holmes returned to Baker Street right after his meeting with her, waiting alone for the afternoon to come, time when she said she would see her lover and from then on, besides of figuring what he could from first sight, he could follow him and properly start the investigation. She insisted she thought it was him so he heard her; according to what she told him and what he saw no other theory until now was obvious, at least it would be a start.

Her lover was a nobody, a handsome drunk of black hair that wore it back well stuck over his nape, intense clear blue eyes over high cheekbones, high forehead, pale skin but scarred somewhat with the traces of few pimples long gone, an artist, with a wide back and a bony very tall body but a swollen liver, a writer and a poet who wrote her songs. Holmes deduced he was a drunk within his entrance because of the state of his abdomen; but minutes later he saw him get drunk, filling his glass of wine over and over again while he and Irene talked about indecent characters from pubs. Holmes had never been quite so blatantly disconcerted, his eyebrows never so high; it's not that he hadn't heard worse, but Irene wasn't in the least the typical anything, The Woman was living up to her legend and surpassing it by far. The more he heard them converse the more he had the feeling he was being tricked, it was only a vague suspicion like that of Adler being lying to him before she gave him the house tour; but he was still going to look into it, the case and his suspicion would both have his attention.

Irene Adler's lover's name was Robert Kendall Vain; some used to suppress his first last name as natural artists that they were, so he would have the artistic name of Robert Vain. Holmes understood these people marginally, with his appreciation of the sad squeals of his violin but no better than that; all purposeless definitions and unproductive activities where a nuisance to his logical brain; he was intrigued by the artistic name, intrigued by the sudden poetry recitals that their drinking reunions turned into (the drinking interrupted when one of them rose his voice and began declaiming a verse, walking through the mob or standing tall on a table, all the drunks would respectfully shut their mouths, listen as if they could think clearly)..: intrigued in mockery; he had followed drunken Robert Kendall only to see him get more intoxicated later in the night; despite he was sensing being in a trap, Holmes was enjoying himself.

Mrs. Hudson was back home; Watson had seen her arrive; she had given an excuse about an emergency, all had been normal, and so Holmes let him go back to sleep.

Next day he met Irene at her house in the morning again, as promised, to tell her what he had seen. She was singing as Holmes waited outside her door, her voice becoming louder as she approached, her voice was sultry and in tune; she sang opera but she didn't around the house, around the house she sang with no effort, as it was her whim, and her voice was sultry indeed. She opened the door and now put forward that the servants weren't returning until the afternoon, she wanted them to clean the house but stay away because they were so nosy, at least while the affair lasted; when Holmes asked her at what time she evaded a straight answer, two, no, four… five, she didn't remember what she had told them. She gave him champagne and he discreetly sniffed it before drinking, but it was clean. She told him more about her husband as he requested, but he envisioned in the information no clue to his whereabouts; he was an American, a lawyer, his family back in America knew nothing of him that was recent (a telegram said so).

He left the house with the sound of her voice in his ear and the purpose to have an irregular spy on Robert Kendall while he spied on her, determined to secretly get information on her from her servants. He now suspected her husband didn't exist; for even when his clothes all had his name and that of the same tailor as if custom made, smelled of soap and some with the same faint man scent, they all had it in almost the same intensity, as if he had worn them at the same time, and they all looked too new. The pictures she had from him showed him to be elegant and indeed maybe he didn't wear anything that wasn't almost brand new, he didn't have a demanding work physically; but also, none of the pictures were recent, this he knew because of the state of the paper, and the fact that in the wardrobe she didn't keep any of the dresses with which she appeared. However, when the afternoon was falling his irregular came running to him to tell him Robert Kendall had entered a very suspicious abandoned warehouse from which male wails emerged… and with a murderous look to him at that, "I'm telling you Mr. Holmes, that man was about to assassinate someone in cold blood!"; reluctantly Holmes was obliged to abandon his spying spot, hoping he had been paranoiac and she had been telling the truth. Unfortunately in the warehouse another drunk and for the moment homeless man, friend of Kendall, was crying because according to himself his life wasn't worth a shilling, he couldn't tell him anything about Irene, and only irrelevant things about Kendall, he pissed right before his sight, he took pity on him and ordered his irregular (who was his improvised backup) to go buy a blanket for the man; Irene was alone in her house and sleeping when he went back and stayed so for the next half hour, and so Holmes had to return to Baker Street with empty hands, a second day and no progress to solve the riddle in any direction.

- Watson! This Adler deal is torturing me! He whined with the same voice and attitude that he did when he was seventeen.

- Why do you say that?

As he looked at Watson there sitting in his armchair retire the cigar from his mouth and be sincerely attentive, surrounded by the comfort of their fire; he felt bad to lie to him, he even felt bad to keep secrets that didn't belonged him from him; but he remembered Irene (in what he had interpreted as nervousness) telling him how it ashamed her to have a lover, his duty being to be discreet with client's confidentialities, and also, he still considered for there to be a wisp of a possibility that her husband was indeed kidnapped when he went for a walk, or suffered an accident that left him deformed and somebody stole his credentials, so no hospital had notice from him; he swallowed and clasped his lips, didn't let that line of conversation continue.

- It's just a hard case. Never mind, - he waved - I don't want to talk about it until I have something clear.

- The missing bell-pull case… - It was a sarcastic question.

Holmes raised a reprimanding eyebrow at him, and so the discussion was ended.

He dragged Watson to his bed making out, they didn't have sex but they made out as adolescents, nicely.

Next morning he was in her house again, she had asked for daily updates and he wasn't about to deny her, thinking that if once him being there went against him he would know about it, be ahead of "them", if someone was looking for him, well what better way to arrest "them" than to use himself as a bait.

- Are there any findings?

She looked so anguished that if Holmes wasn't so full of doubts, this would be the moment when he would start feeling shamefully useless.

- I think you've sent me on the wrong trail Miss Adler. I don't usually let myself get carried away with the client's theory, after all that's why they came to me, but you've proven to be so smart that I thought you were right and you only needed me to execute. Don't get me wrong, I yet corroborated that no hospital had notice from him, that no one saw anything happen in the way of his usual walk, that no traces were in the way of his usual walk… you really must find the clients list that I asked you for, how can he not have one?, his most recent cases too, and you should let me talk to the domestics… Mr. Robert Kendall appears to be everything he has told you and nothing more, if he had taken your husband he would have already gone where he was keeping him; I'll admit he has a hot temper but then again, don't we all…

- Oh no! You don't think he may have killed him!

Holmes didn't answer at first; it was always a possibility even though all data he had on Kendall from every object and every person spoke of a smart but solitary man, thinner than Adler's husband and unable to lift him from the street and kill him on his own; of course that if he had taken her husband his aim would have been killing him, and then they would be late by now, taking into account the two days which she had said had passed before she went to him, and the day before this one when instead of checking Kendall's house for evidence as he would have in a universe where the existence of her husband was incontrovertible, he had sent his irregular to spy on him which is what a substitute for him could do effectively; but he wouldn't tell her that, the bottom line anyway is that he didn't find possible that Kendall would have taken her husband. – It is a possibility Miss Adler that I don't find probable.

Irene knew he was getting to the right track, dismissing wrong traces and asking for the right clues to find out her deception too soon; she required time.

Tears slid from her eyes. – I hope it isn't true. She cleaned them with her handkerchief, but then covered her face with her hands and sobbed, her pain appearing absolutely sincere. But then again Holmes knew her an actress; he put his hand on her back anyway, to console her in case she was really crying. Brusquely she put her head on his shoulder, hugged him. – Oh find him!, she said between sobs. – Please find him!.. I'd feel so miserable… and guilty on top of that! I'll leave Robert!, I hate him!.. Oh I'll be the most faithful and kind, the best of wives!.. Find him!

Holmes put his arms around her and doubted his own theory, though he had always distrusted crying females. – Miss Adler, he said as a wet spot gathered in his shoulder - if you want me to find him you must help me then: have the domestics here so that I can interrogate them, I have to go through all of his things, all of his papers again so we can find his clients' list and know fast which he saw lately, what about your husband's friends?

Her eyes wide opened (as he couldn't see them) she was letting dry up, the pupils moving in fast thought, now worried about planning all the following details to keep her charade going.

She reincorporated, her eyes red and puffy, she smiled to him as much as a sad person naturally could. – You're right, I've been very foolish and stubborn, but you were also right about another thing: I am smart, believe me I know people; I didn't take Robert seriously and I think that was my mistake, but he is so sharp… maybe he knows you're following him, maybe he doesn't but suspects I have sent someone behind his trail, so he hasn't gone where he is keeping him… that could be possible! - The corners of Holmes' lips were going down, unconvinced, he shrugged; all he had seen was an infatuated drunkard with poet pretenses and he didn't think much of him, even less that he could find out any of his moves. – But you're right, the servants are returning at four, you can talk to them, I'll search again through his papers, I'll have a list with all I can remember from his clients and friends when you arrive… I can't right now, I am absolutely indisposed. Right now I'm just begging you, don't lose Robert from your sight, settle things to have him observed. Come have meal with me when I'm put together and have taken a shower, – she smiled again as much as a sad person could – because you're so kind and I don't even know how to begin to thank you; on top of tiring yourself all day long investigating some disappearance that is surely my fault you have to console a weak crying sentimental woman, let me repay you. I'll have everything ready with which I am able to help at three.

Holmes was stone hard in the face and tone. – I accepted the case Miss Adler; you'd be surprised, I'm always acting as a living palliative for my clients, effective or not as I may be. I'll be back at three then.

Holmes was confused again as he was leaving that damn mansion, he felt his brain muddled; he began fearing his irregulars had missed something as it had happened on other occasions, that he had let her husband be killed while he was fearing a conspiracy, but he also the idea that Adler was playing him couldn't be discarded perhaps until three; he was returning, if she didn't have a convincing clients list he would know about it, and then be sure if there was something fishy going on or not… However he decided to exchange observation spots, his currently most useful irregular would be on her and he would be on Kendall. He felt he was on slippery ground, his feet not well planted in the truth, he realized he was wanting to be biased towards her.

There was nothing on Kendall, nothing in his house, nothing; he was always looking contemplative and distracted, in philosophical reflection, one which made him scowl profoundly using up the contents of a cup or two in the morning, having his stomach ready for what would come later, and still later in the night; for a moment Kendall reminded him of Mycroft, the decadent ruined thin version he could have been if the universe's chances had turned out differently. He went back to Adler at three in the afternoon recovering his guard up, if she cried let her cry, he would not be fooled.

But Irene was completely composed and beautiful, as if all this time in her concern she had actually forgotten about dressing and making up as she knew how, see now her looks were the epitome, just like that, the epitome, full stop; he was suspicious again, was she trying to seduce him? Was that what that whole day was about? She had cooked for him, the servants not arriving 'til four.

– Once I used to cook myself and my whole family, they always were pleased and finished what I served them; so I guess I am good at it.

He couldn't deny that, he would hear later from his irregular if she had stayed home enough time to actually cook that, amongst other more important things. She sat down too and began eating. He didn't eat much ever and he was having a hard time finishing up that huge plate, he instead was looking at the clock constantly, and the notes Adler had given him within his entrance, one hoping to skim through them and two waiting impatient for four o'clock and the real or fake domestics to be home; she looked at his - at times - unmoving hands holding the cutlery.

- Either you are a boxer or are brutal with the criminals you catch, which is it Holmes?

She hadn't used the "Mr." part of it and Holmes raised his guard more tightly; no one called him like that except Watson, Lestrade and Gregson sometimes, because he wasn't as familiar with anyone else, deprived from friends and any other constant colleague, everyone else he knew respected him too much and kept the appropriate distance, always adding the "Mr." or "Detective" part of it.

He followed her gaze down to his scarred and plainly destroyed knuckles. – I practice box from time to time… I am never brutal.

Irene felt something of a melting heart because Holmes was so candidly saying he was gentle… and yet he was a boxer. He looked at the clock yet again.

- Don't worry Detective, they'll be here, meanwhile why don't you try to enjoy the food and the delightful, distinguished company?

Holmes felt stung with irritation at being the one being read; he threw her a lightning glare, stretched his neck to say: – You're as arrogant as you look Miss Adler.

- And I had heard you were arrogant!, but yes I guess you're really falling short.

- That's just Watson trying to make me more interesting for the public; you can see I'm not.

She smiled. – Clearly; but if you solve this case I assure you, you have my permission to be as lordly towards me as you wished.

- Sometimes I fail Miss Adler you know; I'm in duty to warn you.

- Oh but I have faith no one could do a better job. You can start calling me Irene by the way.

- I'd prefer not to.

- Then you do are the cold reasoning machine he has affirmed you are.

- Perhaps.

- Or perhaps I'm too inappropriate; I've never been able to adjust to the English stern ways.

- Perhaps.

- My apologies then.

Holmes now threw her a glance at the same time reluctant and relenting; Irene also was at the same time failing and getting to him.

The domestics arrived in time and couldn't tell much more from that which Irene had related before, apart from insults towards her and Kendall, and exclamations at the scandalous ways of both… but no facts. Adler's notes were well structured and during his first inquiries, however useless as they were, the names and all data there seemed to be genuine, real people who didn't know much about the disappearance but affirmed being his closest clients and friends, people with real jobs and solid legal cases that adjusted well with everything; what Holmes didn't know yet, not conclusively at least, was that she had resources and thanks to Watson and some of his own publications knew all about his methods, she knew that he looked at people's hands, their sleeves, their knees, their shoes...

When his irregular informed she had gone out and he had lost her hansom in the streets somehow, with her returning only with time enough to cook that meal they had, he returned to being against her: clearly she had made those notes while she was out and known she was being followed.

In Baker Street he was looking at Watson reading with the burden of guilt on him. Holmes was intelligent, as much as he wanted to deny it he knew he was finding Irene attractive in augmenting degree, just enough to obfuscate his judgment, just as much as a woman as Watson was as a man when he met him; now of course Watson had the upper hand, with the very accurate mental image he had of his naked body, and love and idolatry added; but if he had accepted her invitation to eat he had to recognize it was partly due to her charm, and all his current bewilderment was due to her beauty and astonishing intelligence. He felt guilty and didn't even kiss Watson on his own initiative that night.

Next day Kendall didn't let him go find out about the falsity of Adler's notes as he had planned. Kendall fought in a pub, fierce, cutthroat like a savage animal, "murderous" as his naïve irregular had said, and it was only morning. He gave sinister signs; he had walked to the City of London and Tower Hamlet's Cemetery, looked around and made the sign of the cross on himself once and again, hadn't properly ever stopped at a grave; then a block later he had sat in the sidewalk and cried aloud, invoked Irene's name twice and continued crying. Holmes confirmed she hadn't broken up with him because in the afternoon he visited and they talked in good and even loving terms.

When the next morning he informed her of Kendall's erratic behavior she had cried again. – And if he was in a grave? Holmes tried to console her again and she held him tightly, she was soothed or at least her sobs were and she wasn't yet letting him go. When he stated again that nothing said he was in a grave since Kendall hadn't stopped once, Irene lightly pressed his hand and confessed, her pretty big green eyes shining with tears and gratefulness, her full lips in a little smile: - Oh Holmes, you're the only bright light in these dark paths nowadays… The only one able to shed some light in the most horribly torturing puzzles. She added the last part, to dissipate a bit the adulterous inadequate tone of the former statement, and yet let it hang with all its effects. Holmes felt his stomach flutter and affirmed he had to leave to keep working, collecting his hat from the seat in a hurry and leaving the place as if chased by the demon.

He discussed with Watson that day, accused him bothered of not wanting to make love with him anymore, revealed to him that Mrs. Hudson knew and it was his fault for being so indiscreet when he did feel like it. – God bless Mrs. Hudson! She is a kind hearted woman and has known us for half a decade now; if she wasn't as sentimental as she is we would be in gaol right now! Watson said he was being unfair and negative, and obnoxious, and didn't want to see him that day, slammed the door to his bedroom and heard Holmes vulgarly damn him outside. It was their worst fallout to date. Watson answered from inside his bedroom, air missing in his lungs, his voice a cracked whistle because a knot was in his throat: - I don't love you anymore!, deeply regretting it right away.

However Holmes left to Irene Adler's next day not sure if Watson loved him or not; incapacitated as he was to distinguish the primary evidence that could tell him something about feelings, more pronounced when he was vulnerable to them. She was seductive and perfect and Kendall gave more clues as he went out of his home with a filthy dun bag filled to Holmes' expert eyes with instruments that could serve to torture, to do gardening and to bury; two blocks ahead he stopped, shook his head, turned around and entered his house to not come back out. Holmes had already searched his rooms days ago and hadn't seen that dun bag, but he could have borrowed it from his neighbor; and indeed he had, once several days ago (fitting the alleged day of the missing man's disappearance), and this last time. He got his hands on the tools but there was nothing to them, the last trace was that of recent dirt from the back garden, that way he only knew that they had been cleaned before being used again. He was now taking turns with his irregulars to keep watch on Kendall and Adler; she wasn't giving any worrying signs. He wasn't being able to corroborate the veracity of the notes; even he back then was sometimes victim of bureaucracy, and the data was taking long to be crosschecked even when he had asked to be alerted instantly when a discrepancy was found, if he had wanted to check them himself he would have to go around sneaking into all little tribunals and offices in London, or rest in the main one for hours searching for all the right papers to steal them (arranged as they were by year), and it just wasn't possible… Yet he sensed he was missing something…

That day Watson was giving him the cold shoulder and appearing uncaringly aloof, Holmes only glared at him, filling his pipe with tobacco over and again, thus filling the room with smoke; Watson coughed, his eyes stung and he couldn't read. The only time he directed him word was to complain one last time before he went to bed: - I don't know how I've been able to live with you! That was it, Holmes dropped his arms without Watson noticing (being as he was, giving him his back while he walked away), curled into a ball when he had left the room and quietly cried, exhausted with the case and heavily hurt, he thought Watson would leave him and his formerly unfounded and unfair accusations of him not wanting to make love to him anymore now rang true. That Kendall and his odd ways was getting to his brain too.

In her home she expressed concern about his eye rings, and even claimed he was losing weight; whatever had happened she asked and he didn't answer, but she talked about the position of people's nerves and affirmed she had learnt massaging the temples from her mom, temporarily alleviating stress; she offered to do it on him and even when he didn't reply she went behind him and started. – Relax now Sherlock, relax. She fingered his nape and his hair at the low back of his head, caressed them, in a way he knew wasn't part of the massage; she lay her hands on his shoulders and gently pressed them, then only ran them by them, to his clavicles and then back to his shoulder blades; she ended up supporting the side of her head on his right shoulder and murmuring: – I want my husband back, as her left arm with her hand lightly over his throat was embracing him.

That was the eighth day he was investigating the Vain case, or whichever better name Watson would have given it. He wasn't really suspecting her as intensely anymore; too many facts were for her and Vain's actions looked every time more concluding. As Vain led him very far into the outskirts of London, surrounded by woods, and even into the woods with his dun sack in hand, only to, like the other day turn around halfway (this time in a hansom) and return home, he believed Vain was going to one of the many solitary houses in a perimeter of kilometers; he asked around and checked those inhabited, he did realize the impossible magnitude of the task if he wasn't directly brought to the correct place by Vain or a clue, but at this point he was exasperated, both sad and angry because of Watson and not wanting to return home, crazed because of Irene and wanting to finish the case to not have to see her anymore; he spent the rest of the day looking for the right place, going from pub to pub and from construction to construction in the woods. With his hands empty, exhausted and desperate he returned to Baker Street at midnight.

Watson was ready to apologize to him when he came back; he was still upset, offended and furious but wanted to be mature, so he waited for four hours sitting in his armchair. But Holmes stormed in and strode past him without as much as eyeing him - Holmes!, he slammed his door shut and then everything was dead quiet; Watson felt bitter anger rise to his throat, he stood up and made sure Holmes would hear his own insult in revenge of those he had heard the night of their fight. – You little prick! "Little prick", he had heard right, Watson was no longer only saying he didn't love him, he didn't want to live with him, but on top of that was calling him base names which hurt more because had a relation with his male anatomy, which Watson had worshipped, now venomously demeaned by the same mouth. Watson didn't hear Holmes' little reply: - I hate you.

Mrs. Hudson took the plates and cups from the sitting room without looking at him, getting his attention as he was still red and standing outside Holmes' door; when he thought 'at least now we can screech at each other freely' he knew it was really very ironic. Mrs. Hudson knowing had been the most sensitive point of their quarrel (the one about making love had only been a very stinging wild accusation from an ill-tempered Holmes), and now it was the only good thing going on with their lives. He suddenly felt the urge to speak with her.

- Mrs. Hudson!

She stopped but didn't turn around; Watson was met with her back. - I don't approve Doctor Watson but you two are like my children. Just get your act together.

And she was in the hall to the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson always liked it badly when Holmes called her "Nanny", she was even more attached to him than she was to Watson; Watson was like the adult trustworthy son she didn't have and Holmes was like the child she always wanted; Nanny this, Nanny that, anyone could have suspected Holmes hadn't had a mother and now was making up for that. "Nanny how do you sew buttons? My favorite shirt has lost some... You would do it, really? Thank you Nanny!" "What's for dinner Nanny? You know I hate eels." If you replaced "Nanny" for "Mommy", Mrs. Hudson's dream was twistedly realized. "Nanny Watson has a love problem." "I don't!" "How would you advise your son on love matters?" "You have to be a gentleman, when a lady…" Oh!, Mrs. Hudson was most pleased with her tenants; now scandalized her role was to reprimand them, harshly reprimand that horrible odd and unhealthy infatuation with each other, despite she had already forgiven them; she had seen it coming anyway, why with Holmes' eccentricities and the way he looked at Watson, as if he was admiring Adam in the day of creation itself.


	5. Chapter 5

V. DIRT

Holmes was with Irene next day sitting in her living room. She had again urged him inside and given him brandy; he hadn't slept and was pale and she cared. Indeed, amongst all mistakes she had made there was the bigger one that all her moves were having their counterproductive effects on her; from the beginning her impression had been that Holmes was the most handsome, intelligent, well-made man she had ever met… now with time, and hugs, and a tired wrecked Holmes she had created, though always with a small impish laugh in her soul she was beginning to care; 'we deserve each other', was what she thought.

– You don't know if he has a house beyond Hackney? Before he had asked in the outsides of London, now he repeated his question though more specifically. He was ruffling his hair as he did in impossible laboratory problems, pressing the bridge of his nose, and then ruffling again, sitting hunched, his elbows in his knees.

- No, nowhere in the outsides of London to my knowledge.

She stood up resolute. – I'll find out. I cannot go running around like you, he'd see me without a shadow of a doubt, I don't have your skills; but I have persuasion and influence over him: I'll make him sing.

"Make him sing", Holmes took mental note of that rascal expression, but contented himself with the notion that he hadn't yet ceased his investigations on the alternate conspiracy case that unfortunately didn't let him focus properly in just one problem, everything having a double meaning, possibilities of interpretation to every fact multiplied, his forces divided as was recommended military strategy.

Irene realized she had chosen the wrong expression, but it was done with. – He'll be drunk, and I'll be around the matter until he says it without the need for me to ask. After all, he doesn't know we're suspecting he has one.

- If you as much as broach the subject a little bit too directly, or a little bit too intently…

- What is the danger? You have him cornered anyway, always observed.

- Yes but it would make my job more difficult.

- Or easier; he'd be there immediately trying to remedy that he had spoken, or you would know where without any added inconvenience.

- Or he would suspect you, and I would have to have you under custody while I look for your husband. I'll find out by myself, I can make him speak too.

- In one of your disguises surely. You forget he isn't talkative, much less with strangers, and he's even more reserved around them when he's drunk. I can do it, I can! Please trust me Sherlock! I'm not that clumsy!

"Sherlock"; he was before reluctant because it was unforgivable, something to do only in desperate cases where there was nothing that he alone could do, to mix the client as if it was a colleague, expose it to any minimum danger, even Adler who having in custody would be much more convenient; but if what she wanted was to send him to some godforsaken place in the woods so that a bunch of thugs would trap and kill him, the joke would be on her.

- Fine then. Make him come immediately; we've got not a second to waste. I'll be here all the time, like the other day, in the kitchen; BE SHREWD. He stressed pointing at her with his index and Irene felt like kissing him.

Her eyes lit up excitedly. – Absolutely! O we will have him! He, is, done! And Holmes was a little bit too exactly reminded of Watson in the prospect of a new and exciting case; his mouth was closed but he smiled, he hadn't smiled since he and Watson discussed.

Robert Kendall Vain arrived to the appointment wearing black boots half English and half from the Wild West, they were covered in mud and he slackly wiped them on the mat, leaving his footprints all over the shiny white tiles of the floor; it was pouring rain outside, as if the weather had cared for his coming on stage. He took off his hat as if saluting humbly, for a moment keeping it against his stomach until Adler took it and put it on the clothes stand. Vain had a deep voice, a deeper voice even than that of Holmes. Holmes talked sometimes as flat as a robot, or as if life had no mysteries before his eyes; Vain talked as if God had revealed to him personally all of life's mysteries, he walked in a wide compass due to the length of his legs and always smiled crooked.

He sat down and drank, drank slowly as she talked of nothing, forty three minutes went by without much progress in his alcoholic state; in another twenty minutes the change wasn't much and she looked at the kitchen's door intently to warn Holmes that with Vain drunk or not she would then try. She started talking about plans, plans for the future of Kendall's and hers, four or five children, a dog and a cat, a big house in London and one in the country; and then just like that, it was the easiest confession ever obtained.

- I'll take you to my house in Romford.

- Really?

- Really.

- Is it big and pretty?

- Very big and very pretty darling, enough even for your demanding tastes.

- Where is it exactly?

- Beyond Aldersbrook, from the main road there is a narrow dirt lane going to the bridge that is over River Rom, we call it Bridge Close, and if you follow it, just passing the river, the house is there big and in stone, my father left it to me. Soon I'll take you to it.

- Perfect.

And she went on to immediately wave him goodbye under any excuse, let Holmes free to get out of the kitchen and go to the house. – Oh Sherlock I'm so worried! Run, you better run! Bring him well and alive to me!

Holmes however didn't go straight to the house; this wasn't a case for the police, or at least, not for the high-ranked ones (seeing he needed protection because of nothing other than suppositions); in this cases he always used Watson, but Watson hadn't always been there as he wasn't now; this was a task for other police officers who were merely subordinates. He went by to the police station to pick them up; no one had followed him there. No one was following them, in the hansom, Holmes had every sense sharpened and no one had come after them; they parted however with his instructions a bit before Romford, so that if it was trap "they" thought it had worked, and had Holmes alone far in the woods, but the officers, under his instructions, were always near, hiding as well as they could.

He arrived just as Vain had said. The house was big and in stone but the west part of the north wing had collapsed, that was the front left part of the house. He looked around it; it hadn't rained in Romford, and a peculiar trace by the wood back door, on the dirt and later on the grass, made him feel rigid; he kicked the back door open and with a quiet growl he went running the opposite way into the woods, looking at the ground, always looking at the ground, the officers could hardly follow him behind some bushes and keep their steps quiet; he stopped suddenly after almost four hundred meters, looked around him in the ground, suddenly gave five steps southwest, stopped, looked around, knelt down, walked on all fours by the perimeter, stood up and kicked a tree with a raucous grunt; the officers didn't know if they should just still keep hiding; he broke running again, this time back over his steps into the house. There in the back room, which seemed to have been a stockroom for the house, the trace started: a clean floor in an abandoned dusty house, and dry blood starting from the dirt outside the backdoor, dry blood like that of a massive wound, of a slit throat; there wasn't any other evidence in the room than that. The trail of blood died down as it went into the woods, stopping in what probably had been a little pool by the side of a spot where he had felt and seen a patch of flattened dirt be less firm: removed land, somebody had dug there. Without much hope he yet went to the other rooms of the house, cold and inhabited for long, nothing in them.

When he went back again out the back door, rubbing his face with both hands, he shut the door and shouted: - Get out of there Miller! Long!, get out! They barely had emerged from the bushes, walking to him when he ordered. – Get me a shovel! You Miller, fast!, go into town and get me a shovel!

He went back with a shovel and they all walked to the removed ground. – Stay on guard. He said, much less firmly, and began digging. Hours went by. Three hours, he stopped, sat on the edge of the hole he had created, took off his shirt. – Get me water Long. He drank, jumped into the hole and continued digging… Half an hour and he stopped, it was beginning to get dark. – There's nothing here… why is there nothing here? What does this mean Long? !

Long looked scared. – I don't know. He hadn't even seen the traces of blood; they looked after all, like dark stains on the dirt, like stains of darker dirt, and he was just police, not a detective.

- So you tell me somebody just dug here, for three and a half hours, to bury nothing? !

- With all due respect sir I'm saying nothing, - he was shaking his head frantically - I don't know.

- Sir it is getting dark.

- Do you want to leave Miller? !

- No sir!

- I'm not your general Miller! Leave if you want to! Holmes was in a dark hot mood.

- No sir I'll stay 'til you go!

- Irene is tricking me. She has to be tricking me. – He hissed.

- Sir?

He didn't answer, instead he asked for a hand out of the hole and looked around; everything around was grey, some shadows turning to completely dark black. Holmes continued muttering as he walked randomly around, looking for any other trace. – Why then? I'm here, they could take me, I'm here, in the woods, with two minor officers in the dark. Then he saw it, barely visible in the omniscient grey, he felt it with his foot, knelt down and touched it, took a long stick and sunk it with strength. – No! This was louder; Miller and Long were by his side in an instant. He walked around again, farther away into the woods, in frenzy, felt with his foot and sunk the stick, another two times, stepping every time farther into the woods until they all feared they would get lost. – The shits!

- What's going on Mr. Holmes?

- They told me he was smart, why didn't I listen?, they told me! – He was speaking to himself.

- Mr. Holmes sir?

- The shovel! He asked, stretching his arm; Long brought it running to him. He began digging again, at it he ordered more quietly: – Miller, go bring one or two candles.

He did, but when he came back and lit up Holmes' work he realized the absurdity of it. – Mr. Holmes sir, with all due respect, if someone is buried there, unless he was buried alive there is nothing we can do, wouldn't it be better if we came back when there was light again, with support, and when the danger that someone came for you as you told us wasn't as big as it is right now?

Holmes stopped, listened to Miller, and came into realization that he was being irrational who knew for what other time in those ten days; he wasn't letting them dig because he felt responsible, if Irene's husband was there he should be the one digging him out, but it was impossible that he dag every tomb there in the day, not even with their help; and if Kendall found out and his irregular let him escape yet again, he could flee from justice; each patch he dug was a step away from hiding the evidence that he had been there looking for Irene's husband; but if it all was a trap, as he couldn't yet stop having a glimmer of suspiciousness, because all he knew was that something was escaping him, then why stay there in the dark, with two tired young officers who didn't deserve such treatment.

He put the shovel over his shoulder and walked back to the hole he had made, took a shovelful from the mount of dirt he had created and threw it back in the hole. – Help me, we have to cover it again. With their hands and feet they helped him, covering it was much easier, but it was already completely dark when he put on his shirt to the light of the candles, his vest, coat and hat, and when they took a turn to get out of the woods, avoiding the house.

Miller was falling asleep in the hansom and Holmes couldn't help being irritated by it, it was dark but it was only six in the afternoon, he felt like strangling him but instead only glared at him, who was happily unaware of it. They all went down in the police station and Holmes had to send another minor officer to watch Kendall's house in the night; he climbed back to the hansom.

He went to the post office nearest to Irene's house (in a lot of them in London they used to keep the messages for him if he or someone in his name asked for it); Perry, his irregular on Kendall at the moment, was supposed to send him wires there if an emergency was reported, so that a post boy there went running looking for him at a corner very well visible from his selected spying spots, but there was nothing; this meant that at nine he would receive a wire telling him what had happened during the day; so instead he sent one to Perry, telling him not to mess up again and why he said so, and went to Bailey to tell him he could abandon for the moment.

He knocked Irene's door because she was waiting to know what had happened in the house, bracing himself to give her the ill news. She opened the door, noticing first the amount of dirt Holmes had on the visible parts of his white shirt and on his face, then she noticed the tightening of his jaws; her smile vanished, immersed in her performance.

- What happened? She looked afraid.

- Yesterday, Kendall directed to Romford and deviated halfway, back to his home as if hesitant like the other day with the dun bag.

She nodded frowning, her lips thinning, and then her eyes widened a bit and she opened her mouth: - How rude of me! Come in! Let's go to the sitting room. Her face was insistent though already anguished enough for him to know she was expecting bad news. Holmes would have preferred to stay in the doorway for his sake, for her sake it wasn't right to give her the news in the doorway. They sat down, again because she insisted.

- Yesterday then, he makes as if returning home. She nodded. – I actually follow him home and stay outside it for a whole hour in case he changed his mind again; he doesn't, so I leave an agent anyway to be on his back the whole time while I think that maybe, in the nearby villages, if I ask for Kendall they can tell me what house he was going to; but they didn't, because no Kendall or Vain for that matter has lived there for years or ever, the house is infested with a decade long dust, the whole west wing has collapsed and some windows are broken; we're also yet a little bit far from Romford, but more than the distance (because I actually started asking a little bit farther down the road, knowing that where he turned around wasn't yet where he was going), the problem is that if anyone around knows him it is not many people anymore; the abandoned constructions I looked at weren't the right ones.

She nods again, realizing she was about to be caught if it hadn't been by that happy coincidence that Holmes had noted, but not her; she should have told Kendall to go back even sooner, even farther from Romford.

- Hoping then that I can know the location of the house some other way today, certainly impossible while he's sleeping; because already thinking before that he or his drunk friends could have a property or live or work near some abandoned house where they could be keeping your husband, I had already asked every possible person that could have information on them, I even checked his not very close friends' houses, his, the surroundings, there was nothing and no one knew nothing; so I would have to know it from him.

She nodded again, not believing what Holmes managed to do without her even imagining it, believing all this time that she was dictating in every detail what he was spending his day investigating.

- Meanwhile, as you told me and I was too presumptuous to listen, Kendall knew I was following him at least on the way to Romford.

Irene doubted that, she only told him what to do almost without any explanation.

- So he leaves in early morning; - his dread reinvigorated – my agent probably fell asleep or abandoned the job without my consent. So Robert leaves for Romford… - he stops himself, he couldn't say it like that, not related; he finds a more proper way – Today you find out where the house is so I go, I looked around… - he clenched his jaw again, as if mad with himself, and turned his head to the right.

- Just say it. She asked in a little voice, anguished.

- There was a trail of blood starting from the back door into the woods…

- No! She gasped.

- He had cleaned the back room's floor. In the woods there are a lot of patches of removed ground, a lot of them, and they're profound. I didn't notice but one at first…

- No! It was a little whine, a sigh; coming as a delayed reaction.

- So I dug the one where the trail of blood stopped, but it was empty. The holes would have the purpose of making more difficult to find a body (some were far into the woods and well hidden), and of telling him if anyone had gone looking for your husband so that then he could remove him before he was found, because it was already the job of a whole time of daylight digging even one. Of course he had planned it before, he's too thoughtful to be rash; he spent at least a week digging all those holes… - He stopped himself, he realized he was telling atrocious things.

Irene was quiet, for a good forty seconds. – So you think he killed him yesterday?

There was nothing else that he could reply; in the universe of a real missing husband there was only one sensible answer: - We still have to find a body…

She covered her mouth with trembling hands and whined again – Oh no!

- I cannot say that it is definite until… I'm sorry. - He was going to continue with details, about how a trail of blood that led to a lot of empty holes probably wouldn't serve for solid conviction; but he decided not to, if this was the reality it was already too bad.

She hugged him as she began sobbing, asking to be hugged in time. – It's not your fault… Oh if anything it is my fault!... No, it is Robert's fault!, say it is his and his alone!

He put his arms around her. - It is not your fault. He replied though he wasn't quite sincere; if he felt guilty and was never forgiving himself, how was it only fair that she felt?

She continued sobbing, her narrow back and waist were trembling in his arms with the rhythm of her sobs. She separated only slightly to look at him, her hands previously on his back now on the sides of his neck; Holmes was pale, because of everything he was pale; Irene felt sympathy for him, a Holmes who had worked so hard in a case now disappointed in himself, worried for her, she felt sorry for what she was doing to him. – Come now say it isn't your fault either. She told him, tears still dripping freely from her eyes; she gave him a little smile. – Because it isn't your fault Sherlock. She put her head on his shoulder and murmured, very near to his neck: – You're so great… I can't believe I'm never seeing him again… This is so terrible!..

When her sobs had quieted down he took her upper arms and gently pulled her a bit away from him, her hands sliding to his sides; he looked at her face to assess her condition; her nose was red and she had puffy eyes and ran down mascara, and yet her face was so beautiful. He took his handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned the traces of the tears and some of the mascara; when he was done and put the handkerchief back in his pocket she was smiling sweetly to him, for once sincerely though in appearance there was no difference, Irene was truly very moved by his actions.

She put one hand on his cheek. – You're so sweet. She stated quietly.

Holmes looked at her wide eyed; she was bold to say the least. Irene looked at this and recovered her place on his shoulder, murmuring. – I'm sorry, I'm just so sad and you're so perfect, I've no doubt lost my mind.

Holmes didn't like unfaithful people; he shouldn't have liked her and yet he was liking her so bad; the warm feeling in his chest was also a problem because Watson was at Baker Street, no doubt, he thought, waiting for him with more insults, 'Was he leaving then or wasn't him? Did he or didn't he love him still?' "Little prick!"; even now that gave him the sensation that his eyes were sinking.

She knew she shouldn't, but she was feeling turned on, heat in the low of her abdomen at a Holmes who had spent the day digging under the hot sun for her and smelled of wet dirt; so at last miscalculating, that is, being more reckless than calculating, she reincorporated a bit only to whisper in his ear: - Do you think I'll ever find myself another husband Sherlock? One who loves me as much as he did?

He shivered when feeling her breath, much against his will. – Of course you will.

- That's why I'll miss him the most; no one loved me more than he. With the heat in his ear he couldn't help closing his eyes, if only briefly. She smiled slightly. – I find myself wishing that you could love me as much. She let her head fall back to his shoulder. – I know what you'll think of me! And you'll be right, probably! She suddenly laid little kisses all over his face; he was paralyzed. – Please console me Sherlock!, be gentle to me. I'm so miserable!, I need out. Then she kissed him deeply, leaving him with heavy-lidded eyes. – I know what you'll think of me. She clawed the cushions of the seat of the couch and stated suddenly as a furious capricious child, in complete possession of her judgment furious at him: - I _don't_, _care_!

She was demanding it and his one true love was calling him "little prick" and about to leave him, so he might as well satisfy her. He took her messed up face in his hands and inclined to kiss her, firmly; Irene had wanted it and yet hadn't seen it coming, the kiss was further making her lose her head; she moaned softly, wasn't pretending at all anymore when in a ruffle of fabric from her dress she knelt astride him, taking the back of his head in her trembling hands, allowing the kiss to continue while he took her waist. His hands could have covered it almost completely, he rounded it with his arms then; they were too long, he felt he could have given with them two turns around it; she was a woman, and so rousing in her differences from Watson, and from himself. He separated from her to kiss her jaw; she motioned as if she was going to sit on her heels but she didn't, returning to her previous position, all this being so suggestive, her eyes always closed. From her jaw he went to her neck; she stuck her body to his, her bosoms right there, for him to kiss; he only brushed his lips over one of them with a whine from her, taking her face to kiss her lips again. When they separated it seemed she melted down, coming to sit astride him; she looked at him, her eyes glowing. – Take me to the bedroom.

He lifted her and took her to the nearest one; but also still with some sense, because that was the guestroom and not that of hers and a dead man's (of course he knew the house).

Eventually, after the dress, and the hundreds of layers of petticoats that he, once opened, slid in a single time down her legs; he was able to begin to undo the knot of her corset and pull from the laces; once deprived from pressure as if fluffing around her, he pulled it down along with the short sleeves of her chemise, her breasts naked before his eyes; they were round and firm, white and looking more delicate than the rest of her skin, the nipple pale and pointy just around the spot where maternity milk could once emerge; he cupped the right one by the side and kissed the bottom of it gently, pecked her nipple and went up to kiss her again, while she finished retiring her corset, and he, whose shirt she had already unbuttoned, finished taking his shirt off; she unbuttoned his trousers then. He kissed all down her chest, without skipping her breasts, he took the hem of her drawers, and after the smallest of pauses, he pulled them down along with her chemise, leaving her naked.

Irene was a sight to behold; the constant use of corsets had given pronounced curves to the sides of her waist, after which, her being thin naturally, the ribs protruded only to be hidden again by those pretty breasts of middle size; beneath her waist her flat abdomen prolonged widening with her hips; on her mount of Venus she had a small trimmed bush of black hair, covering the lips of her vagina but letting them be guessed; her legs were long and perfectly sculpted down to the tip of her big toe.

She was shameless. She was an American and had a horrid past; only one with a horrid past and quick wit could turn out as Irene had turned out. When she was five her mother had died and her father had raised her alone, spoiling her limitless with his limited resources, only to have her become an orphan when she was eleven after his murder in a drunk fight; their parents had gone to America alone and lost contact with all family, and because they were renting their house, she was left alone and homeless; for a while she took a job as a maid where she was treated like any other nigger, and just when she was twelve she couldn't take it anymore… Irene had learnt everything to get by, from petty thievery to grand crimes, to the art of seduction. She was a professional liar and unconsciously full of resent; however she also had lust for life, and a vigor and natural capacity to be happy that far surpassed her resentment.

She opened her legs wide, inviting him to touch her. She was enjoying Holmes kissing her legs, his bare torso came into contact with one or other part of her at all times and she adored that, because his torso was rigid, hard like concrete, the carved shape of his muscles was the only variation; Irene liked Robert Kendall Vain with his swollen belly and bony Christ-like figure, but she had to admit Holmes was much better. As he kissed the skin surrounding her groin, after going down her leg, he was taking her buttock in one hand, enjoying the feel of its softness; she was panting, she wasn't noisy but when she was pretending though from time to time she would sincerely moan softly.

Uneasily stirred she suddenly sat up, reaching for his trousers and underwear, she pulled them down when she could; Holmes helped her, for a moment drawing a mocking smile at her eagerness. – Laugh all you want, she whispered loudly – maybe you should have seen yourself a while ago with the petticoats. - I hate those things. Was all he replied and they both smirked.

He was then sitting naked and she sat astride him; they kissed slowly and sensually, tongues against cheeks, against any place that could be found there inside.

With an amused smirk again he whispered to her ear: - How do I undo your hair?

She chuckled. Hair pins gathered in her hands as she moved them by her head, and then her locks fell down to the middle of her back. – Voilà… she said. He was right in thinking she would look beautiful like that.

After that, and after Holmes had kept her head immobile with a hand on her nape, while he kissed at will her mouth and her cheeks, they pressed their bodies tightly together; her moist vagina was against his penis, her soft breasts against his hard chest; it was a wonderful sensation. She ran her hands over his abdomen and then her right one took his swollen cock, pushing it harder against his abdomen, to later leave it and have her hand travel up the middle of his chest until circling his throat.

- Why do you always do that? He murmured but pecked her bottom lip. – You really want to strangle me don't you? He wasn't joking.

- I like your Adam's apple.

He took her butt cheeks and that way hauled her up, making her kneel, he put the tip of his penis against her entrance; that was another moment when Irene moaned softly. He lifted himself off the bed and that way the head penetrated her. Her head fell back; she didn't have inconsiderable experience in the sexual realm and yet she didn't remember a time when the head of a cock briefly penetrating and leaving her (which wasn't unused) had caused her as much pleasure. Next time he held her against him, penetrating her farther and for longer before getting out; she circled his head with her right arm in an attempt to find equilibrium, if she had been noisy she would have asked aloud what her mind asked: 'Dear Lord, where did you learn to do that?' The next time she was sitting on him and it all was much easier; he went in completely and two inches out only to immerse himself all again. He was careful in having her orgasm, and once she did he got out, holding his cock against his stomach so that he would come in his hand or chest, not near her uterus, never near her uterus.


	6. Chapter 6

VI. THE END.

In the morning she woke up first, because it was even lucky that Holmes hadn't passed out within the week, skipping as he was meals and days of sleep; she looked at him contentedly and even kissed his cheek, and not even that woke him up. 'Poor pretty Sherlock', she thought and got up, humming on her way to the shower that her pretty house did have; it was a novelty that would soon spread to other more middle class homes.

At nine, when she was all dressed up and Holmes a naked vision in her bed, as pleased as she was by it, she sensed he would get slightly mad at her if she didn't wake him up already; so she put a hand on his back and whispered loudly to his ear. – Darling… - He moved. – Wake up. He opened his eyes, it was odd to have a female voice wake him up with a "darling"; Holmes knew she called Robert Vain darling.

- What time is it?

- Nine.

- Oh no… He mumbled.

- What?

- Nothing. And then he was looking at her.

- I have a shower. She announced conceitedly, a wide grin on her face.

Holmes smiled at her with his mouth closed. – Always the vain and arrogant one, aren't you? If he had known how poor she was before he wouldn't have been that repelled by it.

She scowled but she wasn't as mad as she was playing. – Well I was offering it to you; you were already too dirty yesterday, imagine now… My sheets are smeared all over with the filth from your face.

- Yes which I had on me for you and your husband.

Her smile vanished; his wasn't there for a while already. – O my… she said as if discomforted – well the shower is ready anyway, she signaled a door – there. And she left the room. His clothes were already clean and folded for him.

When he went out of the guestroom, just as he had gone out from Baker Street the day before, she was in the sitting room reading the paper; it was odd to see a female read the paper; she closed it slightly to address him.

– I hope you don't think too wrongly of me, I do care for my husband, I do love him; I'm sure you've been witness to a situation like this one in the case of men, men who have lovers and yet the one they truly love is their wife, when they lose her for any reason they're shattered; well I'm just the same, I'm promiscuous but not heartless. I also want you to know that whatever it is you think or feel regarding me, I'm not thinking of you just as a "lover", you're the kind of man one truly falls head over heels in love with, but I'm sad too so I have a bundle of mixed feelings; it's not my fault that I had to meet you again while looking for my missing husband.

He looked uncomfortable; he combed with his fingers the hair at the sides of his head, the one free from the hat. – I have to go looking for him now.

She stood up hastily and walked in small quick steps ahead of him to open the door and let him exit. – I trust I'll have my daily update detective. And she closed the door behind him.

He and a bunch of young men - usually jobless - that he had hired were digging up the holes. Previously in a still grey morning Miller and Long had been waiting for him outside Kendall's rooms; he arrived until ten, mumbling apologies, and they arrested Kendall under suspicion of murder, while two of his irregulars spied on Irene. They brought Kendall to a cell where he would be comfortable, where under Holmes' orders he would be treated right, correctly fed; Kendall wasn't saying anything, Holmes only told him, ashamed because never before he had arrested anyone without exhaustive proof: - I will know what you have done and what you haven't. In truth it was an informal arrest, since Holmes had no official authority to make one, an informal arrest made just to keep him from fleeing while he concluded something.

Now he was digging with the jobless without rest; under normal circumstances they would have stopped, sat down to talk and have an unnecessary lunch, stopped several times just to rest, throw shovelfuls of dirt to the other if they knew each other; but with his employer among them all the time, digging as a machine, they were working at last and having the boredom of their lifetime.

A man from Romford passed by with a few sheep behind him; he spoke loudly as they did there in the country, asking one of them: - What are you doing over here?

Holmes heard it and stood straight, so his head outside the hole would see his worker shrug his shoulders and respond: - I don't know, I'm just hired, we're digging these holes but to tell you the truth I don't know what for.

- A lot of activity out here these days. The man continued in oblivion while Holmes was walking to them. – Just today at early morning I saw a tall man by this place, I thought him suspicious because nobody comes here so early and I saw the light of the candle and curious went near; he saw me and for a moment I was scared so turned back my way, even when he only told me good morning, he was your boss then?

- I'm the boss. Holmes said then, getting to them, he shook the man's hand casually. – You say you saw a man here at early morning, today?

- Yes, and I'd say it was much before daybreak, it was dark still. He was tall and had black hair, and black clothes.

- Tell me, you wouldn't have seen anyone here before?, other days or even last week?

- No sir.

- Or before, doing much what we're doing now.

- No sir that's all I've seen, only I thought it was curious.

The man continued his way and Holmes with his usual hard as stone face went back to digging; he would have contributed unknowingly to the rumor that there was a treasure by those places. When the work was over, only before nightfall, there was no explosion of rage from Holmes when no body was found.

He went back to Irene again covered in dirt, he told her they hadn't found the body, which meant that probably Kendall had been there and before being arrested removed the body, told her not to worry, that he would end up finding it anyway.

She smiled to him. – Don't worry, I know you will, what's important is that Kendall is behind bars and at least justice will be done, that's all that matters now. Thank you.

- Now I have to report to Watson and Mrs. Hudson where I've been all this time. He lifted his hat amusingly to say goodbye and strode to the street and stopped a hansom.

He went to the place where Bailey reported Irene was having a new very complicated dress tailored; it was still open because even though it was dark, in London night falls early. He went back to Romford and looked for the Shepard, then spent three hours in the village's pub.

He went back to Baker Street at one in the morning and slumped in his armchair, facing Watson who was sitting in his; Watson lifted his face from his manuscript, it had no expression in it. As always before Watson, instinct took over reason and to not feel destroyed Holmes took an unjustifiable defense stand.

- I'm confused doctor, you said you didn't want to live here with me anymore and yet you just continue your vapid doctor routine, I'm sure you haven't been looking for other rooms, you smell too much of disease to do that; when then are you planning to leave me? He tensed his jaws once he had finished his little speech, even grimaced slightly; what he was doing wasn't right.

Watson shook his head but spoke without emotion. – You've got some nerve.

Holmes' forehead wrinkled in distress when he inclined forward to shriek, because he was sure to lose Watson. – Isn't that what you wanted? !..

- What is the matter with you? !..

- You've thrown me into the arms of a snake!

That's when Watson reclined back on his chair, looked at Holmes gaping and wide eyed; he remembered as he had forgotten all these days that the last time Holmes had talked to him without fighting he had been in Irene Adler's case. – What do you mean? He asked breathless.

Holmes was still yelling. – Were you or weren't you breaking up with me? What the fuck is it that goes on in your scatterbrain?

At that point Watson thought Holmes was about to cry, so he forgot all previous statements and insults. – Of course I wasn't! He shouted back so he would be heard; though Holmes already knew that, he still put his face in his hands, elbows on his knees, as if it was until then that he was sure. – For Christ's sake! You've been awful mercurial and sentimental lately!

No one said anything for the space of two minutes, until Holmes clearly mumbled. – I've cheated on you Watson.

Watson felt his chest deflate, he talked to himself. – Oh God I knew it! I saw it coming from the beginning!

Holmes lifted his face from his hands, he was actually crying, Watson had never seen that; his eyes were red and his forehead had a deep scowl, tears came out of his eyes quietly.

Watson stood up and hissed dangerously: - _You_, _are_ a rent boy! He went to his bedroom, slamming the door now for the fifth night in a row.

Next day he was as pale as before in Irene's doorway; he let her pour him a cup of brandy. He had three packages of documents in yellow envelopes, which he put over the table, and then he started.

- These documents Irene…

- Yes?

- I took them from your husband's office yesterday while you were sleeping.

- Really? Only her eyes had a passing glint of alarm. – Well thank you, I shall put them back.

- They're too many aren't they? Hundreds, I'd say even more than a thousand.

- Yes well, you know more about legal issues than I do, you know – she rolled her eyes to emphasize the immensity – the amount of papers that they handle, to register this and that other, I find it mind-blowingly boring.

- Now all the archives in his office, not even you or I have the capacity to analyze them all.

- No, it would be the boring job of years.

- All I noticed when I first saw them, was that they looked old and battered in accordance with their date, properly archived by case, and that, as you said, I that know about legal recognized that they are all properly structured and validated.

- Well why shouldn't they be? Her face was dark now. – Speak out plainly Sherlock.

- You follow my work don't you Irene? I'm sure you know that I know that no typewriting machine after some use is the same as any other.

- Yes I know.

- But how to crosscheck the typewriting machines of thousands of papers from a lot of tribunals over the years?, as if I could follow the history of the machines and its use in all of them? Irene had blanched; she was ready to flee, hand near her gun and everything, but was staying until she had heard all about how she had been caught. – And even if I could I must admit that even I am a bit lazy sometimes. But yesterday you made me cheat on my girlfriend, and even though I'm not exempt from fault, I am really very mad at you; I'm sure you know you were making a mistake, but you're so promiscuous and I'm so irresistible that you couldn't hold yourself back, am I not right?

Now she was blushing, embarrassed and enraged. – It was all part of the plan.

- Maybe for later, but you skipped a few steps my darling didn't you?

She grinned. – Whatever, even now you still want me.

- And you want me too but that is not the problem we're having now. Back to the papers; you should pity me because I was indeed obliged to undertake the boring task of looking for the papers that should have been redacted in his office with the typewriting machine that you have here; at least those more recent should have the particular imprints of the worn out letters of it, some did but some didn't and there is where I can prove at first that they are fake, that you at some moment had a lot of people working to take copies of his papers on different machines, and then you made them look as old as you wanted. I had to recollect all the papers that didn't adjust to have a good body of evidence, and those are the ones that we have here.

- Bravo Sherlock, let's see if you achieve putting me in jail with that.

- Oh but also, you knew I had a kid spying on you; you know you really aren't as smart as you pretend, why did you have to run away from him that first time that you noticed?, that made me know more surely than anything other that you were onto something.

- I was for a moment startled, I thought it was you and my game would be over too soon; by the time I wanted to return to his watch I didn't know where he was. Why were you spying on me from the beginning anyway?

- The scent that you sprayed on your fake husband's clothes wasn't convincing; how can a man wear all his clothes at once? You also only had old pictures of him; you kept none of the dresses that you wore in them.

- Ah I see, nothing escapes you does it?

- Well if you think that then why see your tailor accomplice to give orders? You could have better left them the notes at some agreed place, discreetly, my kid wouldn't have noticed.

- I'm clearly dumber than I thought. She answered irritated.

- There's no doubt. She glared at him. – And then that last move of yours to send that shepherd so that I would be convinced that Kendall had escaped Perry (that's his name) yet another time to remove the body; that was a very bad move, I merely had to go and interrogate him again, with an innocent threat about arresting him and I knew your other two colleagues, a little bit asking around the town and I knew there was another one, following your tailor friend sent us right away to all of them; confronted with all the facts and some believing you have betrayed them, by now they all must have signed their confessions.

- Wow, this means I'm doomed now.

- Yes, but on the other hand I must congratulate you about your actors, from the domestics to the fake clients, all will be arrested too.

- Careful now Sherlock, some of the clients were actually real.

- Yes of course, the ones that wouldn't know anything about him by now anyway. Who would have thought Mr. Nathaniel Reed lawyer had left for Germany three months ago, someone knew too that you had parted in bad terms, though this I could have suspected; I wonder what you used him for.

- I'm sorry, I'm afraid I won't tell.

- Which brings us to Kendall; he's not that innocent either, is he?; he fell in love with you and accepted belonging to your gang, doing this was his first task maybe?

- Indeed.

- Yes Irene, you've been very foolish this time, a little bit too ambitious; becoming the stoolpigeon for your gang, reporting about me?; even if I hadn't discovered the falsity of this case, I doubt you could have ever done that. Why not just kill me?, ah?, that would have been easier, and at that you could have possibly succeeded.

- Well, you'll probably won't believe this now detective, but I'm not like that, I'm not a murderer, I've never killed anyone in my life and I never will; we cannot say the same about you, right… And to tell you the truth I was looking forward to having my fun at least trying it, and meeting you again. No Sherlock I would never kill you, how could I?; even if that had been my plan after all we've been through I would be cancelling it.

- There's no point in saying things like that, I'm not letting you go.

- No I know you aren't, I can see inspector Lestrade hiding behind the boards of my fence. She turned to the window and wiggled her fingers, saying hi; Lestrade startled and ducked. Holmes couldn't help smirking. – No wonder waiting for your signal, I can see I'm surrounded. She stood up then. - Go on with it then, there's no point in delaying the inevitable.

By her doorway, delivering her handcuffed to the police, she winked at him. – If Watson is unforgiving, come visit me in jail won't you?

Watson was indeed unforgiving; although Holmes wasn't doing much to be forgiven, certain that he didn't deserve it; for two weeks Watson would just avoid and ignore him; Holmes would be observing him closely but doing nothing to remedy things.

The third week for the first time Watson sat down in the same room that Holmes, starting to read by the fire; forty minutes after he started Holmes heard his voice directed to him, for the first time after those two weeks and several days. – Are you just going to sit there staring at me forever? He had lifted his eyes from the book to the fire, but wasn't turning his head.

- Do you want me to leave?

- If you would, please.

And that was all, Holmes left to his room and the rest of the week Watson wouldn't speak to him again.

By the end of the month Holmes was tired of the situation, and most of all hopeless; so he addressed Watson in the afternoon, again by the fire. – I've been thinking it might be right if I just moved out, and let you be in peace; before I do I'll find some other who's willing to take the rooms, and so you'd have no problem with rent.

Watson wasn't happy with his suggestion, he hadn't been happy since their fight; when Holmes made no attempt to recover him he started wondering if he was still seeing Irene, now that he so easily suggested moving out he was aching to know if that was the truth. – What was of her? He asked, in a murmur.

- I arrested her.

He finally looked at him; he didn't remember the last time when he had had those blue eyes plainly on his face. – When?

- About a month ago. Watson wasn't saying anything else but clearly he was trying to make sense of the information; so of course Holmes would help him in anyway, at the moment by explaining. – She created a whole fake case about a missing husband to try and become the stoolpigeon on me for her gang; so the next day after you and I last argued I arrested her.

Watson looked at his own hands nervously twisting as one grabbed on the other; he didn't want to ask but couldn't help it: - So… how many times?

- The night before I told you.

- Just that one time?

- Yes.

Watson looked at him again, resentful. – Oh… and I guess you think that because of that it isn't that bad?

Holmes looked sad. – Not at all, if I haven't asked you to forgive me is just 'cause I don't think you're obliged to, if you should hate me forever you'd have every right. His eyes welled with tears again; Watson grimaced, openly complained: - Oh no! not again! I'm the one who should be crying!

Holmes improperly chuckled, realizing the ridicule he was making by bawling. – You're right, you're right, I'm sorry. He used his index and thumb to wipe the tears again, but they kept appearing. – I can't stop!

- Oh you're pathetic! Watson said scathingly, annoyed and wanting to humiliate him.

- I'm sorry John, I can't ask you to forgive me but I can say I'm sorry; and I am! very, deeply sorry… You don't know how much I regret it…

- If you don't stop crying I won't listen to you!

- I'm sorry. Holmes said covering his eyes with his right hand and went to his bedroom; he wouldn't stop crying and he knew it.

Watson looked at his door with a twistedly displeased grimace; he had one single mocking clack in his throat but it wouldn't come out.

The next three days Watson didn't avoid him but did successfully ignore him; Holmes felt ready, he had cried enough all those days and now he felt dry, and so he told Watson. – Here Watson; I'm put together now, so just answer one thing: Do you want me to move out?

Watson didn't know what to answer; he was just as sad as Holmes was, if he hadn't spent his days crying was because he was weird about that, he hadn't cried in his mother's funeral, but he had cried day and night during war just after the first loses, one couldn't know what Watson would cry about. - No, you answer one thing first… Why? Why did you do it?

He inhaled deeply, let his shoulders drop. – I'll be brutally honest...: Did you look at her?

It was then that Watson's eyes seemed to eject flames. – Is that all you've got to tell me? !

Holmes stretched one arm with the splayed hand, 'please wait, don't hit me' he seemed to say. – I was attracted to her!, when I started being more aware of it I felt guilty, I was stressed out because of the case, I was exhausted, she had my forces split on every front and I felt in a blur, I was absolutely dazed; so what do I do?, feeling guilty I try to blame you for it, I start believing you didn't want to make love to me, that Mrs. Hudson knowing deeply bothered me, for a moment I truly believed it; and then you told me you didn't love me, for a moment Watson, for a moment I also believed it, I believed that you wanted to leave; and after that besides everything I started not being able to sleep, my disorientation incremented; it was a little bit revenge, sadness, a little attraction and a lot sweeping bewilderment when I allowed it to happen. That is that, that is the truth.

- You've always been very good for knitting arguments, or plain excuses…

- I mean it Watson, I'm telling you the truth.

- Except this once; so that's it – he shrugged – you were mad at me for very justifiably and simply put, because of your fault, insulting you and saying things I didn't mean, see, you weren't even right at being angered with me; you were attracted to her, granted, that's understandable, but not something that would lead me to forgive you; and you weren't in your right judgment, something that in the case of another person would be like, let's say, being drunk… So that's all you're saying, you were mad at me, drunk and horny… - he shrugged again while Holmes gaped – What do you want me to do with that?

He didn't answer, he didn't know what he could answer; the silence lasted more than fifteen minutes this time. – Watson, I don't even want to begin saying things in my favor, but I don't want to lose you, so, reasons to stay with me would be that I am absolutely certain that I would never do anything like that ever again and that I love you beyond what I can express, I'm not good with words like that, I just I love you, I love you, I simply love you.

- Alright, alright, I get it. Watson wasn't in control of himself in arguments; he was hurtful, he was always the most hurtful with whoever it is he was arguing. He put his cheek on his fist and again silence reigned for twenty minutes. – I still can't forgive you, I don't know if I'll ever can; but don't move out, if anything I don't want to lose you as a friend, look at me now, – he lifted slightly the corner of the papers in his lap to show them – even with the state of things I'm here writing about you; I want to be in your cases, and I want to write about you, even if you are an incorrigible little prick; you should allow me that shouldn't you?, to continue making my living out of you while I make up my mind. This about making his living wasn't a joke; Holmes used to pay his part of the rent too often, and his short publications on the paper were well paid, a novel or two were also being sources of constant revenues.

- Unfortunately Watson - or fortunately I don't know - even if you decide to write down the contrary, between the two of us, it will always be as you wish.

Irene escaped from jail two months after that and Holmes washed his hands; he had told Lestrade to be careful. That day a photograph of her back, sitting in her bed, her head turning to the side, naked, slid beneath the doorway of Baker Street, with the following legend written behind it: - My dear Detective Consultant Holmes: Escaping prison was much more difficult than I had anticipated; but anyway I'm out and free again, and before I fly away I thought you deserved a much more personal gift and dedication this time. Sherlock my darling, I'll remain forever yours in every sense. Irene Adler. P.d. Who knows how we will meet again?

He showed it to Watson, who was yet, only his friend. – I guess you're asking for my permission to keep it… Holmes didn't answer. – Oh do as you wish!, you can keep it, I don't care. The next time you see that woman is when she will be dancing on your grave.


End file.
